krysti keener

Paris birthday wake-up's

Fruit porn in transit

Routines in foreign places you also call home

Easing into the safe

Comfortable familiarity

The wander

Single sweet messages, oranges too

Desolate

Sad food accidents and webs of rags become art

Cigarettes and petals

Navigation by visual memory

Signs of fall

Toi aussi

Foggy morning in Dumbo, burns off.  Ride out to Coney.  The slowest, near creepy, realization that with each block deeper into the alphabet it is getting progressively, what?  I slowly start to realize:  fogged in. Just like SF.  I put on my Patagonia because it is cold, that cold.  I never look at the temperature, but it's the fifth layer, down, and my hands are freezing.  I ride with one hand in my pocket, wondering like I always did, if it was warm over the hill/in the city/over Twin Peaks.  I don't know if one ever gets over the idea that within a seven square mile radius you can be in the sun and your friends in the other part of town are in the fog.  Although, when you get to the hills, you see it and it's real.  Seemingly impossible always, but slowly over seven years, I accept the impossible as truth.  I also adapted a summer logic that with every ten miles I drove north, into Marin, it got ten degrees warmer, and soon enough it was 110 in Sonoma.  Conveniently the alphabet will help me arrive at a similar logic for these days in Brooklyn, although rare, challenging to make the logic sound.  Surprised as I realized, NYC and BK have become more similar in weather patterns.  A ten year hiatus, upon returning nine years ago, I realize over the last five of those years the weather has, only on rare occasions, reminded of the '90's.  Gone, the brutality of heatwaves, humid subways in July when the weather people tell you it feels like 110 degrees, or the rare nor'easter, now more disconcerting, a 70 degree Christmas, spring blooms in February.  Coney, a routine to me, as I have never seen it.  Haunting and lonesome for the adventurous.  "Only the lonely can play."  

I first saw you by accident, always is, but never is.  As intended, the gifts of the universe.  So preoccupied with your complexity, beauty intersected with a pain that is somehow preposessing in its bond, I am enthralled, enraptured, enamored.  One more conversation with myself about not falling in love with you.  Once I see you, our future imminent.  I contain my enthusiasm, failing in euphoria, our relationship begins.  

Time doing all the favors.  

Age becoming beauty,

In growth, death. 

A force propels.  Dates with things.  Constant one-sided conversations.  Documenting the ephemeral.  The idea of life escaping me.  Constant decay.  Snow impermanent life.  Fleeting oblivion captured.  

Walk home, under Manhattan bridge by the basketball courts.  The kids are playing.  Sunset unfolding.

November 11 | 2016

It occurs to me I don't know what to do with all of my pictures.  Some have homes in their respective and ongoing projects, some are iPhone only and live on Instagram, then there's the rest of everything else I take.  In my mind, I can't break from story-telling.  It is an ongoing visual, and sometimes written narrative, with the home for the daily written meandering in Instagram.  Today as I rode out to the beach, I thought:  I am going to post everything I take today throughout the week and just say "From Sunday".  Then I thought about a book, then I worried about "the other days" and felt bad that they wouldn't have their "home".  Would I start a "From" for every day?  No.  Then I thought about a book of a whole year of "From Sunday" images.  I don't need another project.  Not even close.  It doesn't matter.  My process is my process and perhaps having a mini-home for a bunch of images that seem to have no home and the vast majority do get taken on Sunday, why not. These are "From Sunday".  

October 16 | 2016

This project was inspired by a conversation with my friend and artist, Iviva Olenick.  She a textile artist, was discussing a project with "discarded" textiles.  As I am often walking around, I began seeing "lost" textiles/articles of clothes/gloves and taking pictures of them.  I told Iviva, there was something so sad about the lost items and that I loved this as a photo project.  As I began documenting lost items, there were subtle nuances in what I was seeing.  The lost item, in its fallen state, departed from its owner on the way to its next journey, only to be forgotten, not a priority.  There were also lost items "placed", so neatly, in hopes of the owner returning to reclaim their item.   A caring person had picked up an item that was lost and placed it, seemingly near the scene of incident, with, I have to and want to believe, the notion that the owner will remember where they lost their item.  These photos have a sense of the owner, but in someways more is revealed about the finder and the way in which the item is placed, or arranged.  Then the gloves.  Strewn with blatant disregard, mangled, as if the street is a trash can or very simply the home of the gloves.  The configurations are gruesome.  They are in pairs and singular, rubber and heavy duty.  Each of these instances evokes different feelings, at times making the story more illustrative.  I shoot some items close-up for the simple purposes of capturing the details of the journey of being in the state of "lost in transit".  It is clear the items have been lost for a period of time, never clear how long, but rarely newly lost.  That aspect also only furthering the depths of the story of loss.  Other times I do take a picture of the area, because there are two dynamics that add to the story, first is the broader location and second is the color dynamic.  In the combinations of color, location and the state of the item lost in transit, I see a sweet, sad story.  Often when I pass by the same place where I saw an item, they are gone, and the story continues for me.  Who took the item?  Did the owner come back, or does the item have a new life, with a new owner?  

The art and faux geometry.

The color combinations.

The makeshift ties that, at times, couldn't be more delicate and nearly unthinkable as a resource.

The extreme delicateness of some of the ties holding down these tarps, looking so strong and sturdy, yet tiny and frail.

Paint on paint, the intended coding and the taggers.

The beauty in the dumpster, the roughness of how they appear to be treated, worn, rusted, dented, with the care of tying the tarp. 

The idea that they can easily be "undone", yet have been knotted and tied with such intension.

The tension of the tarps from the draping, tight, bound, pulled so hard, and then sometimes loose, fluid and blowing. 

One bike ride I spoke out loud when I saw one on Vanderbilt.  I was cheering it basically, for its perfection of color and the symmetry of the ties.  I kept thinking it would be there for a while.  It was gone, quickly.  How it began.  I don't look for them.  I see them, sometimes I have my camera, sometimes I don't.  I make notes of where they are and go back to take the pictures.  

Growing up in rural Lancaster County, Pennsylvania we always gave a nod or a slight wave to people we passed on the roads.  We were connected; "related" given proximity and sparesness.  We were neighbors, in theory, and mostly farmers.  What we farmed or grew we sold, often on the honor system in a make-shift "stand" at the end of the driveway or lane to our home.  It was, and largely still is, an honor system; a jar of money to make change sits amongst the vegetables or flowers for sale.  There were signs, usually hand made, certainly one of a kind, announcing what "goods" were in-season, at their peak, readily available for purchase and consumption.  Sometimes there are signs for "services".  I remember going to get Lima Beans hulled with my grandmother.  My grandparents had a large garden and my grandmother had an extensive cellar and thereby the same in process of pickling, canning and jarring.  This was the way of life, consuming what the collective whole grew or raised.  There was a sense of economic equanimity in that there wasn't extravagance or vast ranges in income or wealth.  None of that was clearly defined nor articulated, but only pronounced when I would return home later in life to see a certain sense of consistency, or lack of development relative to the rest of the world.  The pace was and has always been slower, it still is, as these signs indicate.  Over a year ago I took my first picture of one of these signs, the embodiment of this area, I was struck by what they symbolize.  Signs of life, literally and figuratively.  I am frequently drawn to conflict, at times decay and aging, visual signs of life, the effects of time and seasons.  The conflict in this project is understanding my childhood and subsequent life after I left home/the farm for college, never returning to that exact address.  I have spent my childhood working on a farm at ages where I did more damage than good, too young to be paid, even as farm-help.  That work would drive my entrepreneurial spirit and passion for a small business while I worked in large Fortune 50 companies, and, of course, the largest company in the world, Walmart.  Retail is in my DNA, so is farming, baking, gardening and a Farmer's Market.  I love a small business as much as I love managing multi-billion dollar businesses.  The signs embody this area, they are filled with life, more than hope, and for me, nostalgia.  They represent at once and simultaneously, a way of life that "was", but yet still remains, so strong.  They symbolize economic balance to me, yet are wrought with a sense of concern of how long it will last.  

The first time I was aware of "Dead Balloons" was on the Brooklyn Bridge, one night at dusk, walking to meet some friends who had never walked the Brooklyn Bridge.  They struck a deep chord in the part of me that is insatiably drawn to things in opposition, in this case fleeting moments of something that was clearly part of a celebration, not turning out as planned.  What was and now is.  Happiness and sadness all at once.  The impermanence of those moments, balloons bouncing around at a party, intended as memories forever emblazoned and etched in our history, only to have missed out completely.  Or some caring nostalgic soul was bringing them home to keep the spirit of the festivities alive.  The elation of being in transit to celebrate someone, the flurry of activity and then one turn the other way, grip lost and in an instant the universe steals the fleeting momenta.  Where were they headed, what was the celebration, did they make it and then get lost, or were they simply in transit never to arrive?  We will never ever know.  All that's barely left are the remains and they too will disintegrate.  Signs of both sadness and happiness.  The party went on with the balloons or without the balloons, they were maybe on their way to live out the aftermath of a celebration in a more intimate way.  The vibrations of the festivities taking on a new life, one forever changed because of an event, and settling back into life, as they slowly fade to their death. 

This is an ongoing project primarily shot with an iPhone.

Childhood places of living, farming, climbing, imagining, creating, biking, swimming, loving, eating, learning and working.  Not in that order and not representative of the depth to which each of these things played roles in my life and forming my little self.  Work, the pinnacle memory of my childhood, despite how sports would form me, the work always came before anything.  The discipline and the development of being fiercely efficient while making sure the work was done to perfection.  That was a learning process.  The tree where I would dream and built a tree house.  The Range, where one of the my favorite childhood trees lived, The Range where we would walk "by our (little) selves" for the first of a million times, to my grandparents home.  It was "long" and an adventure the likes of which my imagination would explode with some narrative, until I walked into my grandparents home.  The wall I would write on for reasons that I can only imagine had everything to do with my creative brain and rebellion, but what also made sense to me - at six years old.  The swing set where I would swing so high.  I know we dared each other to do flips off of them.  (I may have.) I was always tumbling, cartwheeling, monkey-barring myself everywhere and why I ended up in gymnastics, while being obsessed with ballet. The road where I would ride bike to, so I could lay down in the middle of the corn field tunnel, never knowing if a car was coming, only to squeal and hop-up when cars would round the blind corner.   The river where we would catch newts, put them in white buckets and give them new homes.  The place we would skip rocks for hours unending.  The creek where I would ride bike by, which was near a huge home that I was always curious about, but also imagined it was scary inside too.  The swim club that was the end goal of finishing work every summer day.  I was taught about FOMO before social media every reimagined it.  I have since only had a sense of being present, not really caring about what is out of my control, or what others are doing.  It probably also fueled my introversion and the desire to not be where everyone else was...and likely why I, to this day, don't love a "trend".  There are life lessons in each of those pictures, curiosity and some serious sadness to see my favorite two trees gone.  

I have felt calm, tranquil and peaceful many places on earth and more often than not on a daily basis in New York City.  I have never felt the overwhelming serenity while being in the middle of so many people as I did in Tokyo.  As often as I was around people, many, many people, I was also completely alone at times too and it seemed like I was in a portal.  I immediately understood Murakami and "1Q84" in a way I did not before visiting Tokyo.  I had an experience on the train into Tokyo where a complete stranger accompanied me from Narita past his home and escorted me to a taxi in Tokyo.  At one point we were on the train and he turned and pointed to a monorail.  I felt like I was in "1Q84".  These images depict the peaceful structure, isolation and literal physical organization I found amidst a flurry of movement amongst humans. 

I only visited Tsukiji late night.  There was something about being there when few others were that made me love it more.  It could have everything to do with my childhood in the Farmer's Market and understanding the "set-up" and preparation for the frenzy of customers that descend upon the stand.  Markets are always the most intimate to me before and after hours.  It is personal at those times.  Deep stories of hard work and family.  When the customers show up, it's about the service.  At times it is personal with repeat customers, but mostly, this is the show that goes on.  Truth, solitude and reality are darkest and brightest before and after the market opens.

Kappabashi was sensory overload (in the best way) for me.  I love some extreme visual stimulation.  The most intense presentations of hyper-specificty.  It is visually stimulating in a way that makes you want things you have never desired in your life to the extent of compulsion.  You want many of something, all colors, different sizes, you want all of them, all.  Seeing so many of one specific item, but in every possible iteration of that one item is extraordinarily compelling.  I found it hard not to photograph things in close-up.  Kappabashi begs you to love each little store for its micro-focus.  It also represents the best of "that".  It's like finding nirvana.  

I am captivated and enthralled by "frosted" glass and the mystery of what is visible, yet not.  My curiosity peaks any time I see glass that is frosted, cubed or textured.  My imagination runs wild with what goes on beyond the glass.  So much is revealed and simultaneously concealed.  

Arashiyama is breath-taking majestic beauty, the likes of which parallel the awe of Muir Woods.  I was alone, but for a person next to me and I said (in English) "Wow, it's unreal.  It reminds me of how I feel in Muir Woods."  The person spoke back in fluent English and said "Right."  I was as shocked that I spoke out loud, not really expecting anyone to be able to understand me, let alone come to realize the person next to me was a Singaporean American from LA who was winding down the last days of his trip to Asia before his move to San Francisco.  The world was so small in that instant, yet surrounded by some thing near incomprehensible in its beauty and stature.  I felt safe and very sound there, one of those places I could never leave.  I left a piece of my heart there.

My love for a cemetery was sent to oblivion when I visited Pere LaChaise in Paris.  The tombs, the paths, the moss, the rust, the broken glass, the flowers, the open doors with light pouring in, the doors closed, the copper and because this wasn't enough, these ceramic floral wreaths enraptured me, completely.  They were terarriums of sorts only compounding my love.  A love that I didn't think could grown any more.  I was blown away by these living works of art, nurtured by the souls and spirits of so many who have gone before us, they somehow thrived in morbidly lasting beauty.   

The first time I went to Paris I was enamored with the doors.  It was around the time I rekindled my relationship with photography.  Over the years I began to photograph wrought iron in store fronts, occasionally in windows, and frosted or cubed glass.  This past summer all of those interests merged and I began to see Parisienne doors and windows in a new way, through the story and ornateness of the door, glass and paint.  

Burgundy.  Occurring.  At the beach.  One of my favorite colors.  First it was the sand that startled me.  Then it became more than sand.  There was seaweed.  There were stones.  They danced, they mingled.  They played, they sunbathed.  They were consumed by the ocean, and untouched by water.  They were together, they were alone.  They were peaceful and loud.  They were solitary and over-crowded.  Even what looked like something more solitary was actually billions and billions of pebbles of sand, making waves of art.  They were art, together and alone.  Aren't we all?  The right kind of madness.

In the late fall of 2014 I suffered a severe concussion.   During my recovery I woke up from a dream-like state one night and the idea of pairing “opposite” images together to create a “complete” story came to me.  I was connected and disconnected, both pysically and mentally, yet my brain paired unrelated images together linking them elementally, graphically, historically or conceptually, ultimately completing the story through color, bringing a sense of complete balance when viewed as one story of two images.  

Connected Disconnect is my first photobook.  These are the images from the book.  The concept of the pairing is a bit lost-in-translation by presenting them in this format.  The color flow and connectivty remain in tact.

I was on my way back to San Francisco, a city I lived in for seven years.  I had been in Napa for the weekend, after a wedding in LA Saturday night.  I had just spoken to a friend when I was walking in the Brooklyn Bridge Park and said that it had been a long time since I had been to Muir Woods.  All the turn of the roads came back to me, BUT, I also missed a turn and was headed to Muir Beach.  I said, fuck it and kept going since I had never been.  I walked out to the beach and the beach was strewn with grey and blue "things", looking like part seaweed-type plant or part jellyfish.  Some were grey in color in piles and piles everywhere, at times difficult to navigate a path without them.  The closer I got to the water the fewer they were and the more blue and translucent they were.  I kept walking, but my brain was spinning about what these creatures were.  I stepped on one accidentally.  I did not get stung.  I walked out to the rocks, thinking and thinking, and took my first picture.  I couldn't get these little creatures out of my head and within an instant started shooting the path back to the where I came onto the beach.  I was enamored with the most beautiful olivey green rocks and then rusty colored seaweed with the most incredible geometric shapes all intertwined in the most beautiful of ways.  There was a transition of color, and the closer I got to the beach entrance, the more the blue creatures became part of the mixture.  They started to look like individual art pieces to me, the kind that mother nature created.  I kept shooting away.  Later I researched these creatures.  They float on the ocean surface, en masse, and when wind currents change wash up on shore with death impending.  They are called Velella.