Today we’d like to introduce you to Chelsie Nunn
Alright, so thank you so much for sharing your story and insight with our readers. To kick things off, can you tell us a bit about how you got started?
Though I bloom elsewhere, the roots of my soul belong to a tiny holler in rural Appalachia called Little Sycamore. As a child, I spent sweltering summers eating sandwiches with my grandmother under a weeping willow tree in a meadow at the foothills of the Clinch Mountains. She taught me how her family used the tree branches to brush their teeth when she was young. I later learned this is called a “chewing stick” though I can’t recall her favorite tree from which to chew. I do know it grew beside the water–the creek, if you will. I grew beside the water as well and sometimes in the water via a small aluminum boat with my uncle or father. The Clinch River flows into the Tennessee River, which I reckon is how I got to Knoxville. Studying studio art at the University of Tennessee with a twang wasn’t easy. In fact, the experience convinced me to mask my cornbread and butter. Perhaps only now I’m coming back into myself, writing poetry and making visual art about the sublime region of Appalachia.
Alright, so let’s dig a little deeper into the story – has it been an easy path overall and if not, what were the challenges you’ve had to overcome?
You see, there are a few problems with being a queer person from the holler trying to make respectable artwork in a city in a state in a country that works pretty dang hard to make us feel stupid. I really mean it. No one in my family had a college degree until the 90s when my uncle was the first to graduate from a university. My grandmother only had an eighth grade education. My mother was told she could only be successful working in a factory; although, she miraculously went back to school when I was 9 years old, and she was pregnant with my younger sister at the time. This is a legacy of inaccessibility to education, and I’m proud of the work my relatives did to tear down barriers that cleared the way for me to go farther. I’m so lucky I got to see my uncle and mother go to college and walk across that stage because it allowed me to dream bigger. Now as an educator, I know that my role in the broader community is to continue to advocate for accessible education.
While the lives of young trans and queer students continue to be threatened, I am proof that we can survive. We are teachable and kind. Our artwork is a vital artery of the greater culture, and when severed, the whole body perishes. Keep your finger to the pulse of our young people–that’s how you know the health of our world. I am dedicated to protecting the lives of students who belong to minority populations including: black and brown bodies, trans and queer bodies, and those of underserved communities like rural Appalachia. I am one of many educators who carry the weight of protecting our most vulnerable students by speaking out, being visible, and fostering a love for learning regardless of our own personal obstacles.
Alright, so let’s switch gears a bit and talk business. What should we know about your work?
Back to the water–I have always loved a good boat. Currently, I am making a body of work that synthesizes nautical landscapes and literature with rural Appalachia. I recently bought a sailboat and will be learning to sail this spring (on the lake) which I find amusing. I would say I am known for writing poetry that utilizes light humor to drive home somber points like sailing inland on a lake in East Tennessee. Forthcoming, I will be writing poetry that narrates the experience of “becoming a sailor” from Appalachia, and yet, what I really seek to investigate is the isolation sometimes Appalachians feel from the rest of the world. This feeling harkens back to the inaccessibility I mentioned–to education, the arts, to literature, and yes, even sailing. My paintings, sculptures, and installations are colorful and chaotic. They synthesize time, space, and mental landscapes. Some of my ancestors were Melungeon, and our oral traditions were lost to systems of oppression and assimilation. As a storyteller, I hope to be bold and authentic in order to honor the folx who were silenced before me.
What does success mean to you?
There’s a ford in the Clinch River where we’d all stop to eat lunch when we would do what we called a big “float.” It took around eight hours to float from the put in to the take out in our canoes. Once at the ford while eating lunch, I spotted a newborn fawn sleeping on a sunny patch of grass. My memory of that sparkles in my mind; it’s bright and sweet. Success is this feeling–stumbling across something magical and calling it by it’s name. Success is witnessing yourself be born time and time again and calling it magic. We are taught to fear before we are taught to love. I’m thinking of the spiders, the snakes, and our own shadows. Not every success is a sparkling fawn by the river, but sometimes it is a spider we allow to live beside us in the kitchen. Sometimes success is looking at our own shadows and accepting that we are equal parts dark and light. There is room for both and to both we can extend our compassion.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://www.chelsienunn.com
- Instagram: @chelsienunn
- Other: https://chelsienunn.bsky.social
