Today we’d like to introduce you to Hannah Byun.
Hi Hannah, we’re thrilled to have a chance to learn your story today. So, before we get into specifics, maybe you can briefly walk us through how you got to where you are today?
When people ask me where it all began, I never quite know how far back to go.
Maybe it started when I was eight, barking orders at people while clutching a disposable camera like it was a weapon of authority. Maybe it was that I liked the quiet thrill of it, the feeling of holding a moment no one else had noticed. The gripping wheel of the plastic winder and the haptic feedback of film winding were my favorite kind of power.
Or maybe it began later, when I thought I’d be a musician, a cellist to be exact. When I swore that sound—not sight—was the thing that moved me most. But somewhere between empty wallets and failed competitions, I found myself in an art classroom, hands stained with oil paint, heart filled with a kind of hunger that no melody could quiet.
I started college as a painting major, the kind that carried too much: forty-by-sixty-inch canvases balanced on one shoulder, a plastic toolbox of oils in the other hand, trudging up the relentless hills of San Francisco. My days blurred into nights in the studio, where I learned that art isn’t something you make, it’s something that consumes you.
And I was consumed.
Until one night, somewhere between exhaustion and reality, a thought surfaced; small but sharp. How will I ever make a living from this?
I was nineteen, which meant I didn’t yet understand that love and logic rarely coexist peacefully. So I did what many do when their dream starts to tremble: I pivoted. My second year, I chose photography, the thing I liked second best, and oddly so familiar.
Later, I left the fog and hills behind and returned to Atlanta, finishing my degree at SCAD with a concentration in documentary. For years, I chased the rhythm of photojournalism: the adrenaline of truth, the poetry of real life unfolding through a lens. I wanted to tell stories that mattered.
Then the world changed.
When COVID swept through, everything I thought I knew about the future dissolved. The world fell still, but life, quietly, insistently, kept moving. I found myself shifting, again. By day, I became a product designer, building experiences through logic and pixels. By the weekend, I returned to my camera, documenting the quiet intimacy of human connection through weddings.
It wasn’t the path I planned, but maybe the best stories aren’t linear. Maybe they’re stitched together from detours and half-remembered dreams.
And so, fast forward to today, I am here.
A wedding photographer.
Still chasing light, still chasing feeling. Only now, I’ve learned that art doesn’t always look the way you first imagined it. Sometimes, it finds its own way back to you.
I’m sure it wasn’t obstacle-free, but would you say the journey has been fairly smooth so far?
I never had the kind of story that hinged on wild highs or crushing lows. My journey was quieter than that, steady, measured, almost pragmatic. Maybe it was because I always had a full-time day job to catch me if the wedding world ever wavered. That safety net softened the blows, but it also made the fall into burnout more invisible.
The hardest part came when I decided to take a real break from weddings. I was exhausted, balancing two full-time jobs while planning my own wedding. What was supposed to be a year of rest quietly turned into two. And when I finally returned, the landscape had changed.
Suddenly, it wasn’t just about the work anymore; it was about being seen. Social media had become the loudest voice in the room. For years, I’d relied on word of mouth, planners, and brides who passed my name along like a secret. I’d never had to market myself; I simply worked, and the work spoke for me. But now, algorithms spoke louder. Ads, engagement rates, reels, things that never mattered to me began to feel like survival.
So I started again. From the ground up. It’s been a relentless kind of year, but strangely enough, one of the most fulfilling. There’s something exhilarating about rebuilding. Not from loss, but from choice. I haven’t met my reward yet, but I’m still chasing.
Thanks – so what else should our readers know about your work and what you’re currently focused on?
I specialize in documentary and film wedding photography. Art is subjective, yes, but if I had to name what makes my eye mine, I’d say it’s a blend born from two worlds: painting and photojournalism. Painting taught me to see light as emotion. Journalism taught me to chase truth, even when it’s messy.
I don’t photograph on film because it’s trendy; if anything, I’m a little uneasy about how film became fashionable again. For me, it’s not nostalgia or rebellion, it’s a medium that demands reverence. Film moves at its own pace. It asks you to slow down, to be deliberate. You have to stop, compose, breathe, and sometimes, wait. There’s precision in that patience, yet no guarantee. You might think you know what you captured, but you don’t truly know until it’s developed.
That’s the part I love most.
The surrender. The unpredictability.
The quiet trust that something beautiful might still emerge, even when you can’t see it yet.
What do you like best about our city? What do you like least?
It’s Atlanta. The charm and the chaos come as a package deal.
I’ve lived here for about twenty-three years, long enough to know its rhythm by heart: the way our weather tricks us daily by morning and night, the endless aliens that make the city so surreal. Atlanta has served me well; it’s where I built my life, my work, my sense of belonging.
If I had to name a flaw, it would be the city itself trying to outrun its own growth. The roads that lead nowhere gracefully, the public transit that never quite gets us far enough. Sometimes I wish the infrastructure matched the spirit of the people who live here. But even with its cracks and quirks, it’s still home.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://lowercasephoto.com/
- Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/lowercasephoto
Image Credits
Hannah Byun / lowercasephoto
