A couple of weeks ago, I sat in a packed room at the Kingsport Higher Ed Center to hear Earl Carter speak. He was the featured guest for the 2025 Gail Hale Memorial Lecture—part of a series sponsored by the Friends of the Kingsport Archives. It was free and open to the public, but what unfolded felt more like a reunion of creative souls.
The lights dimmed, and the photos began to roll across the screen—black and white stills that drew audible oohs and ahhs from the audience. Each image held a moment still, capturing the grit, grace, and mystery of Appalachian life. These were Earl’s people, and this was his magic: to find a story in a stranger’s face, to frame a culture without simplifying it.
I was late arriving—wrong building—but slipped into the auditorium just as one of Earl’s prints came up on the screen. I couldn’t help but smile. We go way back, he and I. Once upon a time, we worked together at the Kingsport Times-News, back when the pressroom still echoed with possibility and arguments in the newsroom were signs of passion, not dysfunction.
We were sparring partners in the truest sense—two creatives with strong opinions and the shared belief that our work mattered. We argued about photos, website layouts, what counted as “good art.” Looking back, I probably came off as an arse more than once. But creative tension, when it’s grounded in respect, has a way of sharpening both people involved. Today, I have a photo of us—two old men now—standing shoulder to shoulder. We look road hard and put up wet, but I wouldn’t trade the journey for anything.
What strikes me most about Earl isn’t just his talent—though he has that in spades. It’s his curiosity. His authenticity. His relentless need to see, to understand, and to return with something worth showing. He left Kingsport to shoot for the Miami Herald, traveled the country, and could’ve built a career anywhere. But he came back—to be with his people.
That night, the crowd was full of familiar faces: fellow photographers, musicians, writers, teachers, and visionaries from Kingsport’s long-standing creative class. Dave Sieg was there—a friend and mentor who first walked me across the pressroom floor into the world of the Internet. Mark Mahoney, with his bluesman’s soul and a videographer’s eye. Ken Manness, who’s done more for this region with radio and heart than most people ever realize. They, too, helped shape me. This community has been excellent mountain soil for my own creative spirit to grow.
Kingsport is like many towns—every community has its creative class—but what makes ours special is the way it quietly weaves through every part of life here. From musicians and business owners to photographers, preachers, bartenders, and stage performers, the stories that have shaped me came from all corners. These aren’t unsung heroes—they’re just the people who showed up, created, and cared. We might not package it up as a tourism accolade—and that’s okay. What we have is our own rhythm, our own legends, and I’ve been fortunate to cross paths with many of them. Their work, their spirit, and their willingness to keep making something meaningful have all been part of my journey.
Earl’s work reminded me of that. Of the long thread that runs through this town—the one that ties artists together, whether we’re harmonizing or hollering. And at the end of the night, as the crowd leaned in to shake Earl’s hand or buy a print, there was warmth. Real camaraderie.
I still have that first print I bought from him—Southern Visions, signed in gold sharpie, #1. It hangs in my office, a daily reminder of what matters: showing up, doing the work, and trusting that if you look long enough, something lasting will stare back through the lens.
