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Emerging artist Julianna Chioma is a creative from North Carolina. Rooted in her heritage and inspired by diverse disciplines, Julianna and I discussed her blending of mediums, ceramics, painting, and storytelling to convey narratives of trauma, healing, and cultural legacy. In the wake of September's devastating flood that impacted her creative space, Julianna's commitment to her practice has shone even brighter, embodying a spirit of hope.


Julianna Chioma: I was born in New Orleans and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina. 2021 is when I moved to Asheville. Melissa Weiss gave me my start in ceramics; she’s a real one.

Melissa and I followed each other on Instagram. One day, I swiped up on one of her amazing headpieces. I think I reacted with the big heart eye emoji, lol, and she invited me to come over to the studio to hang out. It’s crazy how that all synced up now, looking back. Days before, I’d been thinking about how clay had been a very moth-to-flame siren calling me for a while, and then this divine invite from THE Melissa Weiss dropped down from the 5G gilded sky – beyond synchronized. I’d had an initiation into ceramics in high school and college, but it didn’t really stick. I guess I was more preoccupied with biology at the time. 

Hand-building is what really attracted me. I greatly admire the Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi, seeing beauty in imperfection and ways of approaching play in the clay material— this kept me interested and challenged in a way painting didn’t. I’d found a new itch to scratch. 

Randi O'Brien (ROB):  Your work showcases a rich interplay of geometry and deeply saturated color, both in form and surface design. It's fascinating to see how these elements create such depth and vibrancy in your pieces - both ceramic and your painting. This bold use of geometric forms and intense, saturated colors reminds me of Melissa's work, as she employs a similarly striking approach. It makes sense that you two would visually respect each other’s work.

Julianna: I adore her work. She’s a big inspiration not just as an artist but also as a person. It was great being in that studio because we would just talk, eat, and play in clay all day; it's almost like you have this telepathic exchange just by being around each other and each other’s work, all this permeability, everything seeping in. It was a magical time.

ROB: Could you share a bit about your artistic practice with our readers? You’re so much more than a ceramic artist or painter. Your work encompasses a broad range of creative expressions. Can you break it down for us and describe your approach to your art practice?

Julianna: The multi-disciplinary energy that comes from my work is mostly born out of my restless-seeking nature. I'm interested in and curious about everything. Somehow, I feel all of the things that I'm taking in come out in my work, like a mass filtration system. I can particularly see this in the body of work that I'm working on right now. The reference point for a lot of the recent work comes from West African cinema and the history of craft in West Africa. This is the subject matter, but there are so many layers I map on top of that, be it a line I heard in a podcast that sparked an image or the light beams hitting the side of an Amazon truck at night that causes me to look at the logo in a slightly different way. The act of living in a constant state of observance is really the practice, just being tuned in and wide open.

My expression in these different mediums is a means to preserve those traditions. My dad is Nigerian, and suddenly, a few years ago, he started giving me these oral histories and stories of his childhood while we were outside working in the yard during the pandemic, and it became this kind of ritual for us. Much of my work stems from there, and it has been expanding out from personal narrative – things that have happened directly to me and trying to make sense of expressing the trauma, as well as the evolution of that, the learning of those lessons, and the healing that comes of it. 

There are times that people look at the work, and they say, “It looks playful and childlike," but there is a dark undercurrent that they can see in the work as well. And I'm honored that they can parse out some of what it is I’m trying to say. 

ROB: I don’t necessarily see a literal childlike quality in your work. Instead, I sense a spirit of experimentation and curiosity – a willingness to play with materials and explore how they interact with the canvas. Many of your pieces, especially your paintings, convey a somber, still-life seriousness, yet they are brought to life with such vibrant and rich colors. I find myself particularly drawn to that dynamic. You often incorporate vessel forms – ceramic and pottery-like shapes. Is there a specific reason you gravitate toward these forms? Would you consider them a focal point or a muse in your work?

Julianna: I think those subjects come from a sense of feeling displaced. I moved maybe four times within three years since living here; that’s the most I've ever moved in my life. A lot of things were shifting in other areas at that time as well; it was all disorienting. Asheville is one of those places that is growing and gentrifying. And a lot of times, I felt like the city was trying to spit me out. The still lifes were an expression of how I didn't feel a sense of home – like I was just visiting. So, that series was a way to put that feeling on the page. Or maybe it was me finding a home in the practice of making that series. They were my shelter.

ROB: This just sparked a thought for me – bear with me as I’m thinking out loud here. When looking at a still life, there’s a certain sense of voyeurism – not in a sexual way, but more of an observational one. It’s like you’re standing outside, looking in on these carefully constructed scenes. There’s something intriguing about that perspective. I’m not entirely sure what it symbolizes, but it feels like it could open up an entire conversation. The still life is a lens of outsiderness, a way of peering into a frame or space from the outside.

Julianna: Absolutely. I resonate with this sentiment completely! I think that’s what’s so special about the genre and why it has such a rich, enduring history – there’s intrigue, there’s mystique. It’s why we watch Architectural Digest ‘Open Door’ episodes on YouTube or watch me do this or that vlogs; we want to see what’s behind the curtain. Albeit strategically placed and dramatized curtains, we still want to see. I think all of those things are a natural evolution of the still life.

ROB: I’ve noticed how you’re translating the rich surface qualities of your paintings onto the "canvas" of actual ceramic forms. For example, your indigo-inspired or batik-inspired blue glazes on vessels have this beautiful textile-like quality, and then there are those pieces with stripes, dots, and geometric patterns. Do you find that working with clay as a canvas offers a response that inspires you? How would you compare the experience of working on clay surfaces versus traditional canvas?

Julianna: The whole idea behind the current work comes from Adire, a West African form of resist dyeing, where they use cassava paste to paint on textiles and then dye it. So, that was my recent foray into experimenting with it on clay. It’s incredibly exciting, and I love how they turned out. I’m prone to using color in this explosively intuitive way in my work, so having this very restricted palette freed up so many possibilities when it came to making patterns with the wax. I'm working on this painting right now, which merges the two worlds together. 

ROB: Since the flood and hurricane, which devastated the communal space Melissa hosted, what has your situation been like? That space was completely wiped out. How are you managing it now? What kind of access to a creative space do you currently have?

Julianna: Odyssey ClayWorks was gracious and kind enough to offer many ceramicists free space through the end of 2024. It was a winter independent study that provided me and other displaced artists with an open studio, free glaze, and firings. I also have a room here in the house that I live in, which is reserved for painting. Painting doesn’t have a big footprint at the moment, but I have arranged it in a way that allows me to do both ceramics and painting now. I have a friend who has a kiln in Swannanoa who’s kind enough to let me fire when I need to.

Right now, I’m working part-time and trying to prioritize art, trying to make a go at that as a living. So, I’m going to have to get scrappy with resources.

ROB: As the floodwaters began to rise, were you able to protect or prioritize anything in the space you had at Melissa's studio? Or was it more of an overwhelming situation where that wasn’t possible?

Julianna: Nothing of mine was salvaged whatsoever from the storm, unfortunately. It’s all gone.

ROB: I am so sorry.

Julianna: It's okay. I'm always trying to look with optimism or find the silver lining. There are lots of opportunities that have come out of this. I have a residency at Lamplight AVL  in the summer, so that's something to look forward to. 

ROB: You’ve mentioned that some of your earlier paintings explored themes of trauma and often depicted the female form. Given the recent events, do you think this new experience of environmental trauma might find its way into your work? Or do you feel your focus will remain on the other aspects of trauma you’ve been exploring? Or perhaps it’s still too early to tell?

Julianna: Oh, definitely. One aspect of the work stems from a collective lens of trauma, but the pendulum also swings in the direction of healing and vitality. It starts with me, but I'm just one smattering of molecules of the same experience we all partake in as humans. You're right; it’s probably too early to tell because my body is still in shock from the whole experience, or not even in shock, just like on autopilot survival. We just become anesthetized to it after so long, which is frightening. But yes, to answer your question, eventually, it will inevitably steer itself in that direction. The body always keeps the score.

ROB: So, thinking about community – since you grew up in the surrounding area, you likely had a familial community to lean on in some ways. But in terms of your artistic community, did you find any unique resources, support, or perspectives that came to you during or after the flood?

Julianna: First, to give you a little backstory on how I even ended up moving here. My Asheville origin story holds tightly to the whole ‘everything happens for a reason’ trope. I met this person, Honey, in Charlotte at a random show at an even more random bar about seven years ago. We hit it off and kept loosely in contact. They have lived in Asheville for over a decade, I believe. They were one of the founding members who started a Different WRLD, a queer-run event space in West Asheville. Knowing Honey is like knowing the mayor, essentially. She knows everyone and is the sweetest, most generous person you’ll ever meet. 

2021 was a deeply transitional period in my life – I’d lost my job in tech and a four-year relationship all in the same week. The intention was to come hang out and lick my wounds for maybe a week, two tops. There was a fundraising event to support the space, and I wanted to help and be involved because everybody I met was so supportive, and I believed in the vision. Then it just so happened that one person was looking for a roommate, and then another person was opening a boutique and wanted me to work with them. Everything fell into place to the point where I felt like I'd be stupid not to listen to the signs. The universe is literally screaming, “You should move here!” And I did. It's been incredibly uplifting and supportive; everyone's so loving and wants to be involved. Asheville is small enough that it doesn't feel crazy competitive and big enough that you don’t have that annoying ‘everyone knows everyone’ aftertaste on your tongue.

That's been one of the main reasons why I'm still here: because of the sense of community I have here and the deep connections I’ve cultivated. It’s not easy to replicate that. The flood cemented that bond because we really showed up for each other. It was remarkable to see. 

Witnessing this whole bonding that we experienced after the flood, and despite the disaster that was Helene, there was this light amongst us all, real care.  Art and initiatives will come from this, which is a very phoenix-from-the-ashes type of work. 

It's hard, though, because society is built upon a structure where everything's transactional and dialed up to this manic speed of progress and productivity, and we just keep moving. It will be hard to reconcile that, but I’m hopeful this light, this optimism will be lasting and sustainable.


You can explore more of Julianna’s work by visiting her Instagram page @frootingbodystudio