I’ve been happy to see many people in and on the river that winds through our city and my neighborhood. With the shutdown of schools, summer camps, and so many adult social hang outs it makes sense folks would be looking for outlets, and there are few better places to be. Fishing folks, teens teasing teens in kayaks, kids splashing away in tubes, ropes tied to limbs to leap off, laughter, music and picnics on the banks; all ages and colors and body types enjoying the affirming waters. All so good and healthy and wholesome! While I enjoy the erratically flowing parade, I also admit to enjoying some intimate quiet time immersed in her flow. 

Friday I took  my first pre-workday float, near dawn. It was softly invigorating—a fabulous way to begin the day. By being virtually alone I was able to be aware that I was utterly surrounded by the energy of life. I could fully take in the serenity of birdsongs, calls near and far echoed on the glassy surface. From far away one can hear the gentle ripples of the currents pouring over occasional rocks and dipping branches churning bubbles. I can breathe in the melting of the rising dew’s silvery veil when the soft rosy gold of dawn warms the new day alive. I become again an aspect of and WITHIN the world, not a cerebral mind acting upon or ignoring it. ​

Likely due to the popularity and increased human activity along her banks, in addition to the floods, I’ve noticed fewer wading birds and turtles. So yesterday it was an added treat to watch a familiar old friend, the Great Blue, majestically take flight as the waters gently carried me near as I floated around a bend. It was our first greeting of the year. Trust requires sensitivity, humility, respect, patience, and consistency. I’m confident in time we’ll come to have less disruptive, more comfortable passings. Oft times I wish I could relate to my human friends as easily and well.  Tomorrow’s a new dawn...

Sharing Wavelengths


During this strange and seemingly endless time of viral uncertainty, I’ve found it challenging to get centered. I’ve let go of some of my old routines and habits, some by circumstance, others because when the ground under one’s feet feels unstable it gets me calling into question where I apply my energies. I realize this sort of problem is for a privileged person like me; here and across the globe many are struggling just to get by. They don’t have the luxury of philosophizing about purpose. Very fortunately I’m surrounded by dear family and supportive friends. Their stability is helping me recover my purpose. ​

Though my travels have rarely been beyond US borders, I recognize how traveling to other regions “fills me up” with new sensations that are inevitably revealed in my art. This was absolutely true following a wonderful trip to Peru last October with Uttara Yoga Studio. During these times of isolation and limited travel, It was great to connect to a fellow sojourner recently and be reminded of that colorful experience. 

It seems to me there’s a certain “palette” of colors in all parts of the world. At least those places not yet totally homogenized (as so much of America) by Walmart, Coke, and McDonald’s. I feel such a cultural palette evolves from a people’s connections to a particular place on the earth. The flora and fauna, the necessary clothing, the indigenous foods, all are part of it, even the weather affects and subtly dictates the colors that come to epitomize a culture. So it was high in the Peruvian Andes.


Aesthetic traditions are never entirely static, and continue to adapt and be affected by interaction with other cultures. They sometimes add their own accents and spices to the dynamic mix. Colonization and religious domination often have leave their heavy marks over the ages. But so did and does the more peaceable marketplace—hence one may see Pink Floyd T-shirts or turquoise Chuck Taylor All-Stars in another part of the world as status symbols, or because the particular colors have an appeal or aren’t available locally. In Peru, we traveled beyond big cities to some regions barely westernized. In most places there was electricity, plumbing, cars, and internet service, yet few highways, air conditioners, or clothes dryers. Very many people were still living simply with few material things and little means. I don’t judge their situation as “bad” or sad, nor do I romanticize the challenges of their trade-offs. It’s just what I saw. Beyond catering to tourists, I had the impression it was not a “consumer culture.” 

As a visual artist I was dazzled by new chromatic harmonies everywhere — influenced by the dramatic mountains and skies, plant forms, delectable local foods, the stones, streets, and architecture, even the subtle shades of skin colors. But especially prominent were the incredible weavings that abound. More than any flag could ever characterize a culture, the lush beauty of this traditional art form resonates in my memory still today. I took some notes, recorded imagery with my iPhone, but didn’t create while there. There was simply no time—my eyes and being were too occupied absorbing all the fantastic wonders. When I returned it still took a few months to digest what I took in, only revealing itself as I began creating a new series of works related to my travels.

Although we certainly have our own views, and may at times approach things differently, my sweet sister Helen and I are often on a similar wavelength. She makes quilts and, typical of her, generously has created one for each of her nieces and nephews as they graduate HS. It’s a wonderful “heading away from home” keepsake. Every recipient has fondly embraced their treasured quilt as they headed to college and grown into adulthood. She sensitively works with each graduate to determine the color scheme of their choosing.

I find it fascinating to consider colors as wavelengths of light, and the impact on us of the unique wavelengths of energy interacting within an arrangement on our being. How and which colors affect or reflect our souls? And further, am curious how this relates to a culture. I know it’s a generalization, but the local Quechuan people in the areas we journeyed radiated a quiet contentedness. In this reduced-oxygen altitude, everywhere we traveled they seemed to not waste energy — especially on things that in most other places I’ve been, would have elicited cursing or at least exuberant hand gestures. Yet these same people also had the energy to build amazing structures mostly out of immensely heavy stone, largely through human labor—I’m not referring to long ago, in many areas, they were still not using heavy machinery or earth-moving equipment. They also have incredible stamina to spin wool, dye it, and weave very intricate swaths of cloth. 

Clearly there was a vitality cultivated within their soft-spoken restraint. To me, their presence and cultural colors spoke of the ever-shifting skies that within an hour could go from bright sunshine to heavy clouds dumping hail; in a moment transforming umber and gray pebbled stone streets into shimmering silvers and slate blues, opening buds on dusty moss green plants to reveal bursts of bright fuchsia-toned flowers, or turn greenish streams into rushing cascades of misty white water. 

When I posted this painting, which alludes to that weaving, and used a detail as the image on the invite for an upcoming exhibition, Helen immediately messaged me to mark it “sold.” I was very happy, and very honored. I told her I’d need the painting through the show’s scheduled run in April. But very soon after, COVID-19 arrived, and the planned large show of new works was postponed a full year. As with so many things, my art was now consigned to hover in limbo. IDK, maybe it was my “Aries” impatience that kicked in; or my familiar desire to try to solve my discontent by actions that would “change the picture.” Whatever the catalyst, during these cautious, restrained times I engaged in a spontaneous gesture and shipped it to her. It felt right and empowering. She and my brother in law Scott could enjoy the beauty of Peru and flavors of Cusco and Pisac sooner rather than later. Their interest and support felt a profound affirmation of my creativite endeavors, so getting the painting to their home kept the flow of energy moving. Especially in this moment, it brought some light to the vague bleakness, and eased my frustration about the show being put on hold. I’m so very fortunate to have been born into this wonderfully supportive family.

After years of quilting for others, Helen finally is readying to embark on a making quilt for herself and her spouse Scott Morlock. This spring she began considering designs and color schemes. She’s also a kind and reflective soul, and on a spiritual retreat a long while ago particpated in a creative workshop exploring expressive colors. She painted a small abstract sample of her favorites, which she saved — I pasted it below in the comments. 

Circumstances had me working until 7 PM so for a moment when I got home I considered not going on the river. But it was hot day, I was still warm, and nearing the longest days of the year—so I downed a snack, hydrated, swapped paint clothes for trunks, donned water shoes, grabbed my trusty tube and headed up the alley toward my muse. It was already nearing 7:45 by the time I put in the water. The splash of the first dip after coursing over the small drop just beyond Memorial Bridge was bracing, especially as that section was already in the shade. But my body quickly adapted and soon the water felt soothing on my limbs. 

Within five minutes I realized my late start was actually a boon. I’ve been happy to see many folks frolicking in the river and hanging out along the banks this spring. My hope is the more people are in the water, the more they’ll come to appreciate, understand, and respect this great resource. Tonight the only sounds were bird calls and currents rippling against rocks. Fewer humans usually allows for connecting with more critters. The swallows were out in abundance, gracefully weaving swoops along the glass-like surface of the river as they vacuumed up invisible flies. Some genuine twittering directed my attention to the treetops, where I spotted a little pair of winged friends with yellowish coloration — perhaps vireos? Grackles were poking in the crevices and sand around every bend. Their stunning yellow iris vivid against their deep black purple plumage. 

I’m always captivated by the ever-changing array of colors before me on the water. Several factors affect the show: the rays of the sun, the clouds, the foliage of the season, the wind (who knew!?), the time of day. This was my latest start so far this spring, and the evening’s golden light enhanced everything in spectacular fashion. ​

I was delighted to come upon a familiar friend, a  black-crowned night heron, our first encounter this year. Dramatic black and white head markings, lovely slate grays, showy tassles, umbers and striking red rimmed eyes made its elegant form a gorgeous contrast to the glowing foliage and reflections. It eyed me warily, obviously cautious about this strange human-frosted donut flowing past. Maybe it didn’t remember me, or maybe it was not one of the ones I’ve seen that nest in this stretch the last few years. (Or maybe it DID remember me and that’s why it was wary—!) Either way, I kept a space to respect its privacy. It watched and held its post. I clucked at it only after moving a comfortable distance downstream. It responded by ignoring me, and set back to work feasting on minnows. The views around several other bends offered feasts for my eyes.

​Do we really need 
excuses 
to pause 
and recognize beauty? 
No matter. 
It’s here 
whether we notice.
In full view 
of our distracted 
eyes and mind. 
An available refuge,
amid anxious chatter
to center us, 
a clarion amid the mud 
to awaken our 
slumbering souls.
Requiring so little:
rapt attention, focus
beyond our selves,
the sincerity of a moment’s
genuine engagement,
briefly excusing time. 
She offers unnameable rewards.
Simple yet profound, 
all around 
accessible, yet 
all too rarely accessed.
Like love. 
 


Alley Puddle, March 25, 2020

I love this moment in the year. The rosemary flowers are overflowing, the apricot tree is in full bloom, the pear blossoms on the way; suddenly in my long dormant yard I’m seeing all sorts of new mini-onion stalks and leaves and tiny fuchsia-colored flowers peeking up. Dandelion yellows are bursting open and the purple dead nettle buds begin to emerge. Thanks to the recent time change, the sun was still hovering near the horizon when I got home, allowing me time to clean my brush, change out of my dirty dusty paint clothes, wander into my yard and dig into real dirt. There’s nothing like the feel of soft garden soil on a not-quite-yet-spring March evening. 

I’ve been tending these beds for several years. A few years ago, after the consecutive new seed sprouts were nibbled down by critters (rabbits, groundhogs, deer), I finally resigned to putting fencing around (and for deer atop) the plots and beds. It paid off, and, as I heard no complaints, I assume the critters managed to find enough other tasty green things to nibble on. 

In response to the last few warm days the hearty kale that overwintered is now in a full-stride growth spurt. I loosened the soil around it and carefully spread the tiny pinhead-sized kale seeds. I sifted a few shovels of the compost pile onto a screen and the “harvest” provided plenty of lightweight fertile umber cover for the seeds. In another bed, I lightly stroked the soil with a hand pick, happily crumbled clumps with my fingers, and leveled the patch with my palms. The rich earth was still warm having absorbed the energy of the beautiful day. I’m not sure if the bed or my hands more enjoyed the massage.

I gently brushed the dirt to create several shallow rows and attentively spaced the beet and spinach seeds in their respective troughs. Despite not knowing what the future months will bring, there’s something very hopeful in the act of folding just enough soil over seeds, nestling them in. It’s like tucking a beloved little one in bed with a familiar blanket, as the full moon begins to wane.

It was a tumultuous previous year, full of hard work, wondrous surprises, and growth in many directions. On this balmy evening, as I sat on my rump in the grasses and plants of my backyard, I noticed a dutiful honey bee collecting spring pollen. In a familiar old cycle, as our world hurls yet again around a faraway star, the earth is into a fresh start, and a new beginning is upon us. The sun beamed a magical golden glow on everything in sight. Today, the soil in these little plots that I tend felt especially fecund, perhaps renewed by the tough year before.  Despite all the frenzy swirling about us right now, it feels full of promise, grateful. Me too.

www.johnwiercioch.com

“Transitions” 44” x 44” Mixed Media/panel
[On view April,2020 in the exhibition “Rivers, Mountains, & Magic: Embracing the Mystery” @ Alexander / Heath Contemporary, 5th & Campbell, Roanoke, VA]

Lately, navigating transitions seems the stuff of life. It may be changes of profession, expectations within one’s work, or within one’s self, or changes in a relationship, adapting to loss, moving where one lives, even adjusting to the seasons. I’m learning to accept that life is rarely static and adapting to the shifts is an unending process. 

Shapes dominate some of my paintings. Areas emerge that become specifically defined. There may be dozens of little bits, or a work may be divided into grid like sections, or a few large shapes may clamor for attention. Sometimes in our lives we manage to accumulate responsibility for a myriad of small tasks — we know what they are, find brief moments to take conscious breaths, and manage to get through a day/week/months attending to them without much room to think. At the end of such times, we look back and all those pieces have come together in a beautiful mosaic-like fashion. At other times we might get the option to arrange and order things in a regularized way, create an expected order and neatly schedule our duties and joys. In other phases of life, a few large priorities might come boldly to the fore. These times oblige a certain restraint as these issues establish the re-direction and composition of our lives. It may even be just one thing, settling in to a new home, or a tragedy, or attending to the health of a loved one, that may suddenly require all of our focus and attention. Amid these times we might crave the option to have room for the “rest” of our lives — in all meanings of the word.

Then there are those slightly discomforting in-betweens; those inevitable periods of transition. The times where we’re headed into something different, new, a moving beyond, often into an unknown or unknowable. It seems natural that we may feel apprehensive or anxious relinquishing the familiar. Complex creatures that we are, as is well documented, we crave habits to such a degree, that sometimes even when a situation is not joyful or unhealthy, we may still resist change. 

When I am painting, at a certain point a dialogue develops with each work. It’s unpredictable if this connection will evolve quickly or take much meandering, effort, “conversation.” Sometimes I can sense it developing, but it’s a subtle and challenging thing to hover in that space — both aware of the moment yet not self-consciously thinking about it. This painting began as fluid, flowing shapes. In responding and revising it, the colors and textures assumed a voice. But within the process, perhaps because the goal was less defined—or perhaps because the flow of the process itself became the goal—the shapes slowly dissipated and the textures became the prominent element. 

At one point, I added dozens of small colored linear marks, like stitches in a quilt, woven across the surface attempting to tie it together. Perhaps this was my effort to control the discomforting vagueness, the transitional arena that was this painting. A desire to order and define a “direction by demarcation” during a period of uncertainty about where it was headed. As an artist I’ve long felt most confident as a draftsman speaking with calligraphic lines, so it’s been one of my personal challenges to discover what happens when I let go of this skill. Ultimately, in this painting, the stitchery became an underpinning, the color still sets the tone, but both were overtaken by hundreds of little notes of texture. So it is.​

And so it has me wondering: Despite the value of content and importance of organization, if the texture that we create and communicate daily in our lives, our intention and tone of voice and the presence of our being WITHIN our actions, is all that really matters in creating a harmony that we might share with others.