Stacy Kranitz Story Archives - West Virginia Public Broadcasting

A Tennessee Photographer’s ‘Guttural’ Photos Of Appalachia

Tennessee photographer Stacy Kranitz is attracting attention for her visceral photos of life in Appalachia and the South. Sometimes her photos are hard to look at, but they’re always compelling. That’s the case with a project published earlier this year. ProPublica’s story, “The Year After a Denied Abortion,” follows a young family in Tennessee.

This conversation originally aired in the May 19, 2024 episode of Inside Appalachia.

Tennessee photographer Stacy Kranitz is attracting attention for her visceral photos of life in Appalachia and the South.

Photography has had an important but troubled history in Appalachia. Many of the stereotypes now associated with the region came from photographers who visited the area in the 1960s to cover Lyndon Johnson’s so-called “war on poverty.” Those stark, black-and-white images became emblematic of a style of photography known as “poverty porn.” That style of photography, and the stereotypes that accompany it, accounts for a lot of why people in Appalachia are still suspicious of photographers.

Kranitz not only acknowledges that history — she leans into it. Sometimes her photos are hard to look at, but they’re always compelling. That’s the case with a project published earlier this year. ProPublica’s story, “The Year After a Denied Abortion,” follows a young family in Tennessee.

Inside Appalachia Host Mason Adams reached out to Kranitz to talk about the gripping photos that accompany the story, and how she thinks about photography in Appalachia.

The transcript below was lightly edited for clarity.

Adams: We’re talking today because of a photo essay in ProPublica, titled “The Year after a Denied Abortion.” The piece is less about the abortion that didn’t happen than about the year in the life of a mother and child and family, and the various challenges they encounter. So, the story centers around Mayron Michelle Hollis, who is the mother in question. At the beginning of the story, she is having her fifth child. She’s already been working through recovery.

How did you connect with Mayron, and how did you get such access to her life?

Kranitz: I received a call from my visuals editor at ProPublica [in] December 2022. She asked me if I would be available to follow a woman who is in the late stages of a life threatening pregnancy that she has been forced to carry to term. The reporter, Kavitha Surana, this is her beat, this is her focus, is abortion across America. She had been working really hard to find a story to tell from a very intimate first-person perspective. We didn’t have full permission from Mayron yet. We had set up a time to go and meet her to discuss what we would like to do and to see if it was something that she was interested in participating in. And then, she gave birth the next day.

She had a very intense birth. She almost died during the birth of her child. Her child, Elayna, was born three months ahead of time and was in the NICU. Kavitha and I went to meet her in the hospital. We had originally planned to meet her that day. We asked her if she was OK to meet with us. She said yes. She was very adamant that she wanted to tell her story. She wanted other people to understand what she was going through how she made the decisions that she made. It’s a complicated story in that, originally, her and her husband Chris, they wanted to have the baby. But they had to really think through the risks, which was that she was very likely to die, and then that would leave her other child without a mother. And that child was not even one yet.

Mayron Michelle Hollis at work.

*Photo Credit: Stacy Krantiz/ProPublica*

Adams: The story basically follows their life for the next year after their daughter, Elayna, is born prematurely. We see them go through excruciating experiences. It all feels very real, and also very hard. She’s extraordinarily vulnerable. We see her at some of her lowest moments. How were you able to capture a year in this person’s life in such a close way?

Kranitz: I did have to be constantly available. I worked with Kavitha, the reporter, and my editor Andrea Wise. Me and Kavitha were in constant contact with Mayron. If she was going to a doctor’s appointment, we definitely wanted to be there for that. If she was going to run errands, we wanted a chance to be there to do that, to document that. Her work as well. And so she got in the habit of letting me know the kinds of things that were happening in her life each week.

Adams: How did you deal with this, not as a photographer but as a person? How were you able to compartmentalize the trauma going on in this person’s life in such a way that you could carry on your own life at the same time?

Kranitz: One of the ways that I am able to do this — and this is a choice — is that I am a huge believer in there not being a dividing line between my personal life and my professional life. So that part didn’t feel all that different. I think it made me uniquely suited to do this work, to pick up at any moment and rush to Clarksville, which is a little over two hours from where I live. I have to say, I have worked on a lot of really, really challenging stories. This one really took me down. It was incredibly intense, and I’m really grateful to my editor and Kavitha for providing a lot of emotional support throughout the year.

Adams: As a journalist, it’s tricky, because our stories may end but life goes on. Chris and Mayron’s story ends in a challenging moment, with Elayna’s first birthday. Chris is trying to put together a celebration and Mayron is in jail at the time. Can you give us an update on how the family is doing?

Kranitz: Unfortunately, things are difficult right now. I spoke with Mayron last a few days ago, and they are going through a lot of the same struggles. The story really affected a lot of people, and they went to Mayron’s GoFundMe page and they donated money at a time when a lot of their utilities were being shut off. They were going through another eviction warning. They owed their babysitter $1,000. The babysitter was kind enough to let them continue to bring the children there. But to be able to pay your childcare provider is such an important thing to be in control of.

Mayron Michelle Hollis with her family.

*Photo Credit: Stacy Kranitz/ProPublica*

Adams: What’s some wisdom you’ve taken away from this experience?

Kranitz: Spending time with Mayron is a masterclass in resilience. Every time I left after spending a few days or a week with her, I felt like I had a deeper appreciation and understanding for how to survive in the face of extreme difficulty. I spent hours listening to her on the phone with [the] food stamps office, social security, all these different resources that were supposed to be there for her but weren’t. I think a lot of people do not realize how inaccessible government assistance can be. And I really, really felt like that education will stay with me forever.

Adams: The photos in this story are emotionally raw and intense. But in a lot of ways they align with the work you’ve been doing for the last 15 years almost in Appalachia and elsewhere. Did you set out as a young photographer to do this kind of work? Or did you just kind of fall into it through your experiences?

Kranitz: I had always been a magazine photographer right, out of studying photography as an undergraduate. I was doing a lot of work around subculture, around music and land, and different kinds of sort of more, you could say “superficial” stories. I was also shooting a lot of portraits of C-list celebrities. I worked for Guitar World and Revolver magazines; I shot a lot of metal bands, which was a true pleasure.

But I had a bit of a crisis of faith in 2008, which is around the time the media industry collapsed. It gave me an excuse to separate from this industry that I felt like only allowed me to make work for a couple of days. And so in 2009, I started several projects, and one of them was located in the Appalachian region of the United States. I began to really think a lot about intimacy, and how I could use the camera to get as close to people as possible. And so it was around 2009 that I began to make this kind of, I guess you could say more guttural work, living very closely with subjects, spending very long periods of time [with them].

Adams: I wanted to ask you about photography’s complicated relationship with Appalachia, going back to “Stranger with a Camera,” the documentary, and even before. Gatekeepers have criticized your work for being exploitative, because it is raw and “guttural,” I think was the word used for it. What’s that journey been like for you? I’m curious as to your thoughts about photography and Appalachia, and how to authentically cover that area.

Kranitz: I came to make work in Appalachia, because I was feeling frustrated with the concept of journalism, this fantasy of objectivity. I felt like in order to talk about that, it would be best to do that in a place that had been harmed by photography, [and] in particular photojournalism. Once I was there, and I realized this was a place with a significant history of problematic photographic representation, it really piqued my interest because I was looking for a place that was struggling with its visual representation. So that’s actually how I came to take pictures in the region.

I’m really interested in the idea of stereotypes. They’re useful for us as humans, right? They help us understand and process what is good, what is bad, what is right, what is wrong. So I began to look at all these different stereotypes that existed in the region. Snake handling churches. I went to a Klan rally, not unique to Appalachia, but certainly a part of rural American, southern life. Then I looked to undo those stereotypes, to look for images that kind of were its opposite. And of course, I found a lot of things.

Out by me, there’s this really incredible, rural queer commune — actually, there’s several — and so I went there and took pictures as well. So I was kind of looking to play with the stereotypes. In some ways, I leaned into them, in order to start a conversation. What I guess I’m looking to do is to make work that asks us, or asks the viewer, to reflect on their own relationship to images of poverty. I think we talk a lot about poverty porn, but we don’t talk a lot about how the threshold for what is poverty porn — and what is not — is going to be different for every single individual.

So when we talk about things like this, it’s really important to understand where we ourselves are coming from in determining [whether] something is problematic or not. Where does that come from? For that person, it definitely has to do with their own personal history with poverty, and that’s a really important thing to factor in to think about. So I really am trying to make work in this region that does in many ways deconstruct that problem.

Adams: Do you have a sense of where your line is, of where that threshold is crossed? Or is it more like the Supreme Court justices definition of obscenity; you know it when you see it?

Kranitz: No. I think one of the things that has been most valuable for me is that I have learned in making my work that that line is constantly shifting. I tried to make work in this place that has been very harmed by photography, and I would never deny that truth that allows us to talk about that discomfort, those problems, the shame that we feel around images of poverty, their inability to actually solve poverty. Appalachia is best served by a variety of photographic voices, all these different pieces of a puzzle that fit together to tell a story about this place. And they really all need to be in conversation with each other.

"More Takers in a Long Line of Takers" – A Photographer Responds to Vice's "Two Days in Appalachia"

In a recent interview, photographer Bruce Gilden said, “…you have to be sneaky to get the picture…” He said other things about respecting his subjects, his need to get very close and that only by veering into abstraction could he get closer.

Let us not mistake being close for being sympathetic, though. Outside land-speculators came to Appalachia decades ago. They got so close as to tear into the land. Then they took it elsewhere … and sold it. Outside land-speculators had to be sneaky to get Appalachian coalfield landowners to sign away their mineral rights

Taking a portrait, of course, is not an abuse on the same scale as taking land. But it is still taking. And just because Bruce Gilden’s in-your-face ambush approach works on bustling city streets doesn’t mean it flies elsewhere. Gilden speaks persuasively about his interactions with folk and stands behind — professionally and literally — his hard-flash and the caricature portraits that result.

In some ways, I admire Gilden’s repeated defense of his controversial approach and his repeated willingness to field questions, but still I am not convinced and I don’t think I ever will be. Here’s why. People in different regions and of different histories have very different relationships to the camera and respond accordingly. Gilden’s one-size-fits-all approach doesn’t fit in Appalachia.

Gilden’s latest jaunt in the current issue of VICE (Vol. 22, No.7) is one of more than a dozen portfolios that make up the 2015 VICE Photo Issue. So, it’s worth noticing that Gilden’s portraits are not illustrations for a regular article; they were commissioned for an issue devoted to photography.

Woman from eastern Kentucky featured in Vice’s “Two Days in Appalachia” story

Shot over the weekend over June 6th/7th, the series titled “Two Days in Appalachia” includes congregants at the Kingdom Come’s Old Regular Baptist Church in Premium, KY, men at a prayer breakfast gathered at Covenant Mountain Mission Bible Camp in Jonesville, VA, and children and adults at the Harlan County Poke Sallet Festival. In the same issue is “There Ain’t No Grave Gonna Hold My Body Down”, a series of images of church-goers in various Appalachian towns made by photographer Stacy Kranitz.

My assessment of Gilden, Kranitz, their guiding philosophies and work differs somewhat. My criticism of one doesn’t always apply to the other, but for the purposes of critiquing VICE’s decision to assign the two photographers jointly to the region and to run their work back to back, you may assume that my laments in this case apply generally to publication, editors and, yes, both photographers.

The 2015 VICE Photo Issue is, according to VICE photo editor Matthew Leifheit, “a testament to the enduring power of photography to understand the stories of our lives.” If only.

Leifheit goes on to explain that his department teamed up with Magnum Photos and its nonprofit arm, the Magnum Foundation by “sending out young photographers out on assignment together with Magnum members, other times emerging artists were influenced by the history of great photographers who have contributed to Magnum’s legacy. Although the approaches to documentation are diverse, we believe both established and emerging photographers benefit from sharing pages.”

Sending Kranitz and Gilden out together failed.

Woman featured in Vice’s “Two Days in Appalachia” story

“The past few days have been hard,” wrote Kranitz on Instagram on June 7th. “I have been on assignment with another photographer, Bruce Gilden. He and I are at odds with the way we make our work. I watched him make portraits and aggressively enter my shot to get his own, while telling me ‘this is my shoot, you are just here’ I listened as he said disparaging things about people, I listened to his dissatisfaction with people being to [sic] ‘plain’ and late last night I could no longer stand by and continue to feel good about being bullied. He humiliated me in front of a group of church goers and I feel that I may have taken a stand at the wrong moment. That I was not being considerate or mindful of my surroundings either.

“I don’t hate Bruce or his work but I think turning people into what you want them to be, turning people into ‘self-portraits’ of yourself is complicated and dangerous especially in a place with a history of extraction,” Kranitz wrote.

This principled and somewhat vulnerable reflection confirms everything I have thought about Gilden and his personality. It reflects some things I’ve come to learn about Kranitz. Kranitz deals, here and elsewhere, in introspection and flexibility of thought that Gilden never does.

My relationship with Kranitz is strained to say the least and the antipathy between us has been aired in public on occasion. Our commitment to dialogue about photography in Appalachia and our conviction of thought is matched. We’re both steadfast and that contributes to the friction between us. I want to flag this history between Kranitz and I in order that I may follow-up and say that this article is not a witch-hunt directed at her.

This article is a harsh criticism of an abusive project that was rushed, ill-advised and — given the ingredients — doomed to failure. As the liaison (producer?) for the project, Kranitz bears some of the responsibility. Mostly, though, I fault VICE.

A Recipe for Disaster and for Internet Buzz

Leifheit, VICE photo editor, never responded to my request for comment. Not knowing the specifics of the decision-making behind the Appalachia portfolios, I’m left to hazard a guess. GILDEN + KRANTIZ + APPALACHIA = CLICKBAIT, maybe?

By pairing Gilden (aggressive, abrasive, and loud-mouthed shooting style) with Kranitz (drug and alcohol-fueled Appalachia-is-one-big-off-camera-flash-shirtless-party style), VICE knew it was ordering fireworks, or cheap controversy, or both. Neither portfolio shows me anything new. Both reinforce the idea that Appalachia is somehow an exotic location for photographers to drop in and use people as props. They aren’t connected to any other purpose than being self-serving. In other words, they draw attention to the photographer more than the people and communities being photographed.

Gilden, here, effectively substitutes Appalachians in to replace the nameless folks in his last set of portraits. Kranitz’s portfolio was made up, partly, of old images from existing series we’ve seen before. Gilden’s an old dog and you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Kranitz on the other hand is wrestling non-stop with her image-making, her presence, and the history of representation in Appalachia. Without wanting to sound patronizing, I think Kranitz is self-taught in new tricks — the more she learns the more she realizes she doesn’t know. She’s light years ahead of others, but as well as running rings around the pack she also makes wrong turns. Her VICE offering here is confused.

“I struggled with the complexity of translating the value and power of religion to urban populations, which have long participated in the characterization of rural people as simplistic and naive,” wrote Kranitz in her accompanying statement. Why does this need translation? And how does her series of images do anything to work against the characterization of rural people?

We’ve all seen the visual tropes that cue the most widely known visual “facts” about Appalachia. What is it about this work that stretches us to see it differently? I appreciate Kranitz’s long-form work and commitment in the region, I believe she is on the verge of shifting to pursue something bigger than herself, but she keeps getting in the way.

Kranitz declined to speak with me for this article about this VICE assignment. She believes my decision to not invite her to serve on the board of Looking At Appalachia, an organization I founded, was an attempt to silence her voice. Since then, she has characterized me as running a “tyrannical crusade as gatekeeper of who can and cannot make work in the [Appalachia] region.” I disagree with her assessment of my work with Looking At Appalachia. I disagree that I’ve silenced her voice. I did not ask her to join Looking At Appalachia in an official capacity for reasons that I don’t care to make public.

Putting these things aside I realize this moment is a missed opportunity to speak with a young photographer with whom I (and Looking At Appalachia) share common concerns. I would not expect the same level of engaged conversation with others. Leifheit, I’d suggest, gave more time and consideration to his project PPIX, wherein he photographed things he peed on for 30 days than he did for Gilden’s “Two Days in Appalachia.”

Shut Down by Magnum, Ignored by Gilden

I suspect both VICE and Magnum both spent more time conceiving, planning, executing, and editing the Gilden assignment than he actually spent in Appalachia. Perhaps that’s the case sometimes if you’re a news agency on a tight deadline, reporting on time-sensitive issues. That’s hardly the case with this work. Why send Bruce Gilden to a part of the country that’s been visually stereotyped more often than not, to shoot in a style that, albeit bold, is incredibly impersonal and is stripped from nearly any context?

Roger May is a photographer behind the Looking at Appalachia project.

Unfortunately, I cannot fully answer that question because despite a thoughtful and productive 45-minute telephone conversation with Cameron Cuchulainn, Magnum Photos Special Projects Manager, the follow-up email with specific questions I was requested to send, and sent, was met with zero response. Nothing. Zip.

Later, I received a courtesy call from a reliable source who informed me the stonewalling was deliberate. I was shut down by Magnum. The fact that no one would respond in any official capacity to this type of work speaks volumes. I am beside myself, though I probably shouldn’t be, that an agency like Magnum would put their integrity, and that of its members, on the line in such a fantastically amateur way.

Am I saying that Gilden can’t or shouldn’t make work there? Absolutely not. But if he’s going to make work there, he can’t be the least bit surprised if there’s a strong negative response to his style of shooting and his presentation of these folks in an international magazine.

How is this work any different from the throngs of photographers who’ve made this sort of devoid-of-context work? Bruce, if you have an answer please get in touch; your studio manager said he passed my email along, but that was weeks ago. As with Magnum, I have no idea what you’re thinking.

It’s a slippery slope when you come to a region often misrepresented or only represented in a certain light, and use people as props. No amount of contrived language, heady MFA-speak, or artistic vision can make up for any of that. I don’t care what agency you work for. In the end, it’s the people who allow us into their lives that matter.

People aren’t theories. We have no feedback from the people pictured. Will they receive copies of the magazine so they can see how they’re composed, framed, and displayed? Was it made clear who the photographers were on assignment for?

VICE catastrophically catapulted two headstrong photographers into Appalachia. Two different photographers, people, and approaches with unsurprisingly the same outcome.

There are photographers who want to be looked at and celebrated and there are photographers who want to see people and celebrate them through photography, in context, in a way that honors the people. Sadly, Gilden and Kranitz miss out on the latter — far more so Gilden than Kranitz.

To Krantiz’s credit, she is devoted to making work in the region and spending lengthy blocks of time in Appalachia. I believe, like many of us, her work is evolving, but when I see it side-by-side Gilden’s in VICE presentation, I struggle to see a difference.

Appalachia is big enough for all of us to be making work that matters, work that can effect change — not only in us, but inside and outside the region. But this isn’t it. As they should, these images will be lost in the noise created by a media outlet more concerned with clicks and buzz than the people photographed in their stories.

More takers in a long line of takers.

Reprinted with permission from Roger May — see the original story here.

Roger May is a photographer from the Tug River Valley on the West Virginia/Kentucky border. He is the author of Testify: A Visual Love Letter to Appalachia and directs the crowd sourced project, Looking at Appalachia. He blogs at Walk Your Camera.