Nikki Zuaro (NZ): I’m glad that we were finally able to conduct this interview! Can you start off by introducing yourself and give a brief background? Where did you grow up?

Hannah Clark (HC): My name is Hannah Clark. I'm a documentary photographer and I am from a small town called Ringgold, Ga, that sits on the state line just south of Chattanooga, Tn. We have a debate in our family about if we're actually from Georgia or Tennessee but I don't think I can claim one over the other. When I want to get more specific I’ll typically say that I’m from the Tennessee Valley. 

NZ: Did growing up in Appalachia influence your subject matter? Did it always? If not, how did your process bring you back to Appalachia? If so, how did you see your subject evolving? Are there growing pains?

HC: Growing up in Appalachia didn't always influence my subject matter. In fact, for a while, I tried to separate myself from Appalachia completely. I wanted to be a traveler of the world. Highly educated and sophisticated. I wanted nothing to do with black and white images of hillbillies and church picnics. Which is funny because I guess if you look at it that way, Appalachia did always influence my subject matter. 

NZ: I think we can all relate to the conflicting feelings of our hometowns; the battle between nostalgia and familiarity against wanting to break out and explore. How did you determine your powerful feelings about Appalachia?

HC: Funny enough, I did exactly what I said I wouldn’t do: I started photographing hillbillies and church picnics. I had spent a long time trying to break free from home so any time I would visit I felt like both an insider and an outsider. It was incredibly uncomfortable. The images that came out of that time were a critique of my conservative and religious upbringing and what I saw as the Appalachian way of life. I was trying to explore what it was that I wanted to separate myself from. It began with photographing local churches that had an impact on me growing up, political imagery, hoarding, and our somewhat run down family farm. 

At the same time, life was still happening. I would visit home and make a few images here and there of these ideas that I was seeking out but I was also driving to family reunions, hanging out with my siblings, spending time on the river, family holidays, and working in the garage with my dad (or sitting there snapping images while he did the work). All the while, I was still snapping images. One day I realized I had a handful of images critiquing home but hundreds of images of what it was like to actually live there. 

Even then, the work was a side project while I was looking for my “thing.” I’m sure that, as an artist, you know what I mean. Every artist has that thing that they do really well. I was still looking for it. What is the thing I want to spend my time focusing on? What do I really care about? Then I read Elizabeth Catte’s book What You are Getting Wrong About Appalachia and it clicked. The reason I had hundreds of images of Appalachian daily life is because I am Appalachian and I loved being home. Don’t get me wrong, my home isn’t above critique but it also didn’t deserve that level of censure. Every place has its faults. 

NZ: Do you consider yourself a storyteller through images? 

HC: Absolutely. My goal is to be as reliable a narrator as possible. Additionally, I can only tell one small part of the story that is Appalachia. There are other photographers, writers, and artists out there doing the work in their Appalachian communities as well. 

NZ: Are there any figures that you feel you relate to or would want to work with in the future?

HC: Some projects I would love to work with in the future:

 Looking at Appalachia 

100 Days in Appalachia

Appalshop 

Highlander Research and Education Center

Inside Appalachia

I’m also interested in the idea of a collective of Appalachian photographers that actually represents the demographics of the region. Queer people, people of color, women, fat photographers, photographers that have other jobs to make ends meet, photographers with families…you know, real people. They’re out there making important work right now that isn’t being seen. Maybe that kind of collective already exists?  As of right now, it's just a tickle in the back of my mind.

I also would love to eventually publish a small book of my work with Soft Lighting Studio, an independent photo book publisher that was started by an Appalachian photographer. 

NZ: At first look, your work Sequoyah Nuclear Plant creates a physical and psychological sense of foreboding but when thinking about it more the nuclear plant is a life source for many through jobs, power supply, and education. Can you tell me more about this piece and your thoughts behind the contrasting themes? 

HC: When I made this photograph I was thinking about the landscape in which we live but it has become a loaded image for me. In my area, the Sequoyah Nuclear Plant is a part of our daily landscape. As common to us as its neighbor, Mowbray Mountain. I’ve driven by the plant hundreds of times, passed it in boats, and swam under its shadow. As a child I found it fascinating. A manmade behemoth that powered our homes and heated the bathwater. Local families, including mine, are proud to have been part of TVA projects. Building power plants and dams was an accomplishment that contributed to our community. Our people and our economy benefited from this labor and so it has been worn as a badge of honor. The TVA also plays into Appalachian photographic history. During the depression, the Farm Security Administration, the FSA, employed a group of photographers to document what life was like for rural and migrant workers. Much of this work exists in our collective consciousness. There are few that can’t immediately summon a mental image of Lange’s Migrant Mother. 

Another key photographer of that time was a man named Lewis Hine. A photographer that I once greatly admired. Instead of working for the FSA, Hine was hired directly by the TVA to make images of rural Tennessee communities. These images presented a very specific narrative: the poor struggling mountain man was living in the past and needed to be introduced to modernity for his own good. And so, under the guise of aid, and using these biased images as tools to convince the rest of the US that their intentions were good, the government took the land it needed to build its power plants and dams, leaving communities displaced and entire towns submerged under man made lakes.

Not only did these images serve as propaganda, they also set a precedent for future photographers that would come to document the region. This impoverished, white, mountain man narrative became Appalachian canon for generations. This alone has been incredibly damaging to Appalachian communities. 

To add another layer, while these images were used as a tool for land theft, this land was already stolen. Sequoyah Nuclear Plant sits on Cherokee land. The name Sequoyah was given to the plant after the TVA built the Tellico Dam upriver. The construction of the dam destroyed many Cherokee historic sites and so as a strategic (bullshit) maneuver, the TVA named the plant after Sequoya, the creator of the Cherokee writing system. 

This is what I see when I look at this photograph. A man made landscape that serves simultaneously as the lifeblood of an entire region while also being a monument to the continued displacement of human beings. 

This photograph is possibly the best image that I’ve ever made and is definitely a turning point for my work. It has come to be more to me than just an observation of an altered landscape.

NZ: Your photograph, Sid and McK, has a natural visual tension that was captured beautifully. Can you explain your image making process? Are you an intuitive photographer or do you take notice of the composition then snap your picture?

HC: Above all else, it’s important to me that my subjects are shown with dignity. These are not just representations of an idea. They are real human beings, often my own family members. Their comfort in front of my camera is important and if they ask me not to photograph them, I don’t. I would have to say that I shoot intuitively but I think it’s important to note that working intuitively comes with commitment and practice. Making good images is a skill that anyone can learn.

For me, an important part of shooting is capturing the truth of the moment even if the composition isn’t technically perfect. My images aren’t posed or constructed in any way. I work in a strictly documentary format so I shoot exactly what is in front of me. This method of working means capturing a moment as soon as you see it. It’s a race to put the subject into the viewfinder and hit the shutter button before that moment is gone.

The more I shoot, the better I become at shooting quickly and with intention. I’m getting to a point now where I trust myself to do both without overthinking it. Not every image is going to be a winner. Not even MOST images will be winners. And that’s completely okay. 

The best learning experience in my photographic career was when I was working as an archive intern for Magnum Photos. Their photographers are meant to be the greats, you know? They would come in and hand over these hard drives with thousands of images on them and I remember scrolling through the hard drive of a photographer I highly respect and it was FULL of stinkers. But for every two hundred and fifty to five hundred bad images there would be a single defining photograph. One that captured exactly what the others failed to grasp. 

This isn’t hapless shooting combined with luck. This is commitment. If you need to take a thousand images of the same thing before you have the image that captures the essence of it, do it. The more you do that, the less stinkers you capture in between.

NZ: Thank you for sharing your artistic practice and allowing us to see how beautiful and diverse Appalachia truly is. I can’t wait to see what you produce next!