A mountain lion perches atop the twisted remains of a dead tree, mid-roar... not in retreat, but in righteous warning. She is not lost, not out of place, she is home and reclaiming what was always hers. In I Will Not Go Quietly, Hannah casts the cougar as Mother Nature herself... watchful, hunted, and no longer willing to play nice.

Beneath her, a glossy mid-century family glides past in their golden sedan, the perfect picture of postwar prosperity… content, oblivious, headed nowhere good. The illusion paper behind them pulses like a siren, a patterned alarm that dares the viewer to keep looking. Everything appears orderly, even idyllic... until you feel the tension in the air. Something has gone deeply wrong.

This is no nostalgic Americana. This is the cost of conquest, the rupture beneath the pavement. Hannah refuses to let the viewer sit comfortably in the delusion of progress. Nature is not decorative. She is not tame. She is not silent. And when she returns, it won’t be with a whisper.