Crystal

Calhoun Terrace
Telegraph Hill
Saturday morning

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I was born in a place of edges – the parallels that carved out the state boundary, the sharp angle of the winter snow. Our days were guided by temperature, watching the the rise and fall of a line against lines. The three lines that made up the horizon: highway, plains, and sky. When the sky turned purple, we knew to be scared of torrent spiral wind.  It was a foreign shape that would snap and zag, appearing suddenly, destroying mercilessly.

My life in San Francisco is marked by curves: sidewalks crawling over hills, curlicues in crema, the Victorian accents found in old houses straining under layers of paint. Palm fronds trace out drifts of wind. Below the city, the straight edges heave their weight. They lean into each other like impatient shoppers and every once in awhile, their fighting carries upward suddenly, destroying mercilessly.

I like to travel – so far, to over a hundred countries and all continents.  My work, my life, revolves around maps, one that’s plotted along lines and curves. There are many sweet moment of traveling but a notable one: it happens on the plane, usually when you’ve touched down at SFO. You are tired, happy, ready to go home. You’ve been to Rapa Nui, Spitsbergen, Villa Las Estrellas, wherever, and your seatmate leans over and says, “Is this home or vacation for you?” I say both.

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You can see a slideshow of Crystal’s photo shoot here.

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