A Filmmaker’s 30,000 ft. View of an Appalachian Arts Movement
The famous California sun burnt a hole through receding thunderclouds as I boarded a plane in a packed LAX terminal. A severe storm had been fighting its way inland from the Pacific all weekend. It looked like it had finally passed the coast and would wreak havoc on pretty much every state on our flight path back home to Knoxville.
The little red duffle I slung over my shoulder carried a few socks we couldn’t squeeze in, an assorted treasure trove of knick-knacks we’d collected, and my copy of Silas House’s Southernmost. My partner, Jaeda, and I just settled in to our seats when the pilot warned us we were flying into rough weather. By the time we had reached peak altitude, we had caught up with the storm, lightning flashing like a yell, echoing as thunder in the sea of clouds below us.
It was the same storm that had driven us indoors for most of the trip. That’s when we ended up in the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures.
The Academy Museum is a living, breathing monument to filmmaking. As a filmmaker, the 10-year-old me with a VHS camcorder in hand could only dream of the playground built on a busy block in the center of LA. If you go up the escalator to the main exhibit and down the exhibit hall, you’ll find a circular shrine to some of the most revered filmmakers in history; and that familiar golden statuette.
We’re talking about mammoth otherworldly legends: It Happened One Night (1934), Sunset Boulevard (1950), E.T. (1982) — and Barbara Kopple’s Harlan County USA (1976).
Her Oscar for Best Documentary held its own among stories that have become household names. Her raw portrayal of union workers in Kentucky’s coal mines feels as alive today as it did almost 50 years ago. Her depiction of mountain life (and death) is an archeological dig into what can only be described as a story screaming to be told. And here it was, revered and remembered in the national capital of movies. I had never seen Appalachian art recognized in such a way; not in the years I spent in LA before moving back to Knoxville, or ever for that matter. My surprise wasn’t a question of if the film deserved to be celebrated in the exhibit, but more of an appreciation of its impact, and a question of if anything made in our region today could have the same impact.
Back on my flight, we were feeling a different type of impact as we hit turbulence over the outstretched Southwestern deserts. The storm continued to rock the plane like we were sledding down a rocky mountainside, and the clouds below were puffy patches of snow. Lightning illuminated the skies, but we never heard the thunder behind the thick windows of the plane. I thought about something my dad told me once when we would stand on the porch as a storm battered the mountains around us. If you count the seconds between lightning and thunder, you can tell how far away the storm is. I don’t know how scientific this is, but it gave meter and rhythm to an act of God.
The image of an oncoming storm has been adopted for some nefarious and negative purposes and causes, but if I may steal it back for a moment, I think there’s a lost meaning in that symbol. I come from a line of farmers. My mom’s side of the family were tobacco farmers until they left Calhoun for work in Knoxville. For them, the oncoming storm is a chance to be renewed and rejuvenated. It’s the feeling of leaving home and returning, or in saying something we hadn’t felt safe in saying or creating something that soothes and scratches an itch in our soul.
For artists, the distance between lightning and thunder is the distance between the flash of art we create and the echo of its effects. Wide recognition in the form of awards, articles or in this case, exhibits, acts as a back porch yardstick to measure this rainfall. I’m always hopeful that when I put out a film, the recognition and impact won’t be too far behind, and if I’m very very lucky, it will be long-lasting like Harlan County USA. That is certainly never guaranteed. However, it’s ultimately up to us to continue to create, communicate with one another and lift each other up so that the storm grows and brings with it new life, even if those accolades never show up. For a movement to happen, we can’t stop, and we can’t do it on our own.
Thinking about Barbara Kopple and the current Appalachian writers, storytellers, filmmakers and artists that quench the thirst of our culture, could there be a storm on the horizon for us — the people who call this region home? I see it when Tyler Childers sells out Thompson-Boling Arena in Knoxville or when Silas House and Frank X Walker capture a moment on a page and then use their platforms to advocate for change and shine a light on the region. I see it when films like Ashley York and Sally Rubin’s Hillbilly (2018) and Elaine McMillion Sheldon’s King Coal (2023) hit home with an audience who has never stepped foot in the mountains. I’ll stop the list before this becomes a fan letter, but I do think an artistic movement is on the horizon for this region. It’s fresh and new, and a long time coming. Sometimes, that movement or potential just isn’t recognized. Even when it is, it may not be the type of recognition we ascribe meaning to or even want to accept.
This isn’t the first moment in history that southern or Appalachian art has been recognized or created as part of a movement, not by a long shot. But, in my 28 years, this time feels different.
Appalachian artists have generations of harmful stereotypes to undo. That’s a lot of work. Could we eventually reach a tipping point where there are so many complex stories that center the region that the tide can be turned? Is there a point at which we utilize technology and platforms that we have never had before to not only reach out into the world but reach out to each other and say, “I’m telling this story too?” My mind wanders to these places on the good days when I feel excited about what lies ahead for storytellers in this region. But on the not-so-good days, I’m reminded of the times when I left the shelter of home and moved for a time to a culture in LA that was less than receptive to my accent, my family and our way of life (or their version of our way of life). In those moments of being written off, I feel like I’m back on that plane, holding my things in a little carry-on in my lap. I’m going through the storm, but I feel separate from it, fighting the rocky turbulence without the relief of the rain.
But we do what we do anyway.
As artists in this region, we write even when those things may go unread. We sing songs on back porches with only the trees as our audience. We make movies, videos and TikToks that will be viewed only by our loved ones, even if we cringe as those videos age. We crowd into matchbox theaters to see things on stage that will never be reviewed or rewarded. We always have, because the stories we tell aren’t assigned worth by the intensity of their thunder.
Maybe there is a great Appalachian arts movement on the horizon. I see it. I’m sure others do too. Many probably don’t — or at least don’t recognize it yet. But, maybe they will one day. Either way, I hope we keep doing what we wake up feeling like we have to do. I hope we keep doing the things that we feel like we’d break open if we didn’t. Often, that’s easier said than done.
As artists in this region, we write even when those things may go unread. We sing songs on back porches with only the trees as our audience. We make movies, videos and TikToks that will be viewed only by our loved ones, even if we cringe as those videos age. We crowd into matchbox theaters to see things on stage that will never be reviewed or rewarded. We always have, because the stories we tell aren’t assigned worth by the intensity of their thunder.
Maybe there is a great Appalachian arts movement on the horizon. I see it. I’m sure others do too. Many probably don’t — or at least don’t recognize it yet. But, maybe they will one day. Either way, I hope we keep doing what we wake up feeling like we have to do. I hope we keep doing the things that we feel like we’d break open if we didn’t. Often, that’s easier said than done.
What will happen next is an exciting unknown, full of whimsical hopes about what the rains and storms of a new generation will bring. I hope that the Appalachian storytellers of tomorrow are not bound by race, gender, religion, sexual orientation or any other cultural marker. I hope that the stories we tell in these coming years are not bound by the expectations we have for how and when they are recognized.
For art, 50 years is a long time. It will be a miracle if anything I’ve created lasts that long. That’s a pretty bleak thought for a creative person (or any person). But then again, there’s Harlan County USA. Even at slim odds, the possibility that the collective thunder of an Appalachian arts movement reverberates for that long is a daydream worth having.
After exiting the jet bridge at McGhee Tyson, there is a sign no bigger than a sheet of paper that welcomes you to East Tennessee and the Smoky Mountains. The rain was clearing when we finally made it to the car. On the drive home, I couldn’t help but count the seconds between the flashes of lightning in the rearview and the thunder that chased to catch up to our car. The rainwater seeped into the mountains as the sun set, and new growth prepared for what I hoped would be a sunny tomorrow.
Illustrations by Emma Goldenthal @ephem.mmera
