Hi—I’m Kurt Hunter. I make films and soundscapes about real people and real stories—the kind that bloom in quiet places and deserve a bigger microphone.

I grew up in Southeast Alaska, where the rainforest meets the sea and connection is something you build. Isolation wasn’t theoretical; it was daily life. You made community through shared experiences, stories, and the simple, powerful act of listening. That’s where I learned to pay attention—to voices, rooms, weather on a tin roof, and the small details that make a story feel true.

Over the years I’ve worn a lot of hats: radio and audio production, photography, a few mailrooms, systems administration, and a long run as a mobile DJ (I still love cueing the perfect track at the perfect moment). The thread that holds it all together is being creative—piecing together the unusual to make something new, interesting, and meaningful.

I’ve spent decades shaping stories with sound; now I’m pairing that craft with a camera—so the voices I care about can be seen as clearly as they’re heard.

These days I’m channeling a sound-first sensibility into documentary film. I still edit with my ears—listening for texture, pacing, and emotional resonance—while building a visual language that lets those stories live on screen.

When I’m not in production, you’ll find me tackling home projects, chasing sunsets with a camera, experimenting in my (oversized) closet-studio, spending time with family, or writing late into the night with a cup of coffee within reach.

”The bar I set for my work: be useful, be human, be heard." Why does that matter? Because in a world full of noise, authentic voices—real voices—are more important than ever. I’m here to make sure they’re heard, remembered, and never lost.

On That Threshold

At sixty, many people are drawing retirement plans, sketching out how to slow down, how to step back. I find myself instead at a threshold — a liminal space where the familiar and the unknown meet. For decades, I’ve worked as an IT professional, a steady career that paid bills and carried me forward. Yet the deeper truth is that I have always been orbiting something else: stories, sound, film, photography, creative pursuits that have tugged at me like a tide.

Now I stand between two worlds. On one side is the structure I’ve known — the “day job” that, for all its stability, feels increasingly like a waystation. On the other side is a leap into something less certain but more alive: my creative stride. Raven Radio is one expression of that — a project rooted in memory, community, and place — but it’s also a doorway into a larger ambition.

Some would call these pursuits side hustles. I think of them more as side quests, journeys into divergent terrain where the reward is not just survival, but meaning. Because the true goal isn’t merely to fund my art or even to have my art fund itself — it’s to create work that carries weight. To shape something I can be proud of, something that shows others that there is still value in shared stories, in ventures that pull us beyond ourselves into spaces that are enveloping, unique, and alive with possibility.

This is the heart of liminality: a crossroad where the past no longer fits and the future is uncharted. It is uncomfortable, yes, but also fertile ground. To be here is to recognize that change is not a loss, but an opening. That the in-between is not a void, but a stage waiting to be crossed.