The blog for anyone who’s ever wanted to quit this business—and didn’t.
/fckinphotoblg
A Film Fanatic Is Keeping It Real- Keith DeCristo’s Analog To AI Workflow.
“In a dark room, the flatbed glows gently between the lid and glass.
And when the scan begins, it’s not just movement—it’s performance.
The light glides under the negative, casting animated shadows across the walls and ceiling like some kind of analog puppet show.
You watch it pass under faces—old, familiar, forgotten—and they don’t look like portraits.
They look like apparitions.”
Where film meets Firefly—one photographer reclaims 20 years of analog and turns it into a post-human memory machine.
A Film Fanatic is Keeping it Real | fckinphotoblg
Nostalgia won’t lie.
Dust on lens, truth in the grain.
I shoot what I feel.
Nikon F2 Nikkor 105mm f2.0 | Kodak Ektachrome
Natasha Komis – Alleyway Attitude | Mamiya RB67, Fujichrome Provia
Ellen – Nikon F2, Nikkor 105mm f2 | Kodak Ekachrome
Kirsten – Skater Girlz Editorial | Mamiya RB67 90mm SEKOR | KODAK Tri-X 400
Test Environment
This isn’t a workflow.
It’s a resurrection bench.
A kit built for coaxing memory back through voltage and dust.
• Epson V600 Photo + transparency adapter
• Datacolor Spyder for full-screen color fidelity
• Dual BenQ 32” production monitors, because one is never enough
• Panasonic BT-18U for checking stills with cinematic eyes
• Horseman 7x magnifying loupe, for inspecting the damage up close
• Rinn X-Ray viewing station (vintage, retrofitted with 5500K “movietones”)
• Staticmaster brush to chase the ghosts of lint and time
Onwards, To the second pass:
• SilverFast 8 for raw scanning control
• Adobe Photoshop with Firefly layered in for AI-augmented resurrection
• Luminar 4, because sometimes you want a mood the others can’t give you
Natasha & “Boris” – The Kiss | Nikon F2, Nikkor 50mm f1.9 | Fujifilm Superia 400
Scanned ghosts whisper soft—
the machine paints over them,
dreams in pixel breath.
Sarafina – Blonde Bombshell on White | Mamiya RB67 | Fujichrome Provia
Natasha & Boris – Iconic Editorial Scene | Nikon F2 Nikkor 90mm f2 | Fujifilm Superia
Laurissa – Teased hair, emerald pencil skirt | Mamiya RB67 | KODAK E100
Perfect’s a rumor.
Give me scratches, light leaks, truth—
unedited breath.
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That time I married my workplace romance.
Because we’re branding weddings now.
My Wife and I- outside in Toronto, CA
Flashback!
Stay tuned!
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Fear, Loathing and Flatbeds | A Scanner-Induced Breakdown
A cinematic diary of isolation, analog obsession, and the scanner that sparked a psychological unraveling. Part memoir, part meltdown, all real.
The box said “100% archival, vegan, and devastating.” I opened it anyway. #FearLoathingFlatbeds
It starts with the quiet.
Not the usual kind- the pause between cars or the soft dip in weekday foot traffic. This is a new quiet. A complete shutdown of everything familiar.
You can hear birds in Manhattan.
Clearly. At night.
Not pigeons. Not sirens. Actual nature-show birdsong, piercing the evening air like something summoned, not native. The ambient noise of New York City- like everything else- is now a ghost of its former self.
And then there are the booms.
I’m being completely serious. Imagine the most realistic, heart-pounding, disaster-movie sound effects you’ve ever heard- then cast yourself as Victim #2. Super intense. Like some angry basement dweller is thumping at the granite core of the Earth with a broomstick the size of a Falcon 9 rocket.
The subway, if that’s what it is, has never sounded like that.
And I’ve been here for years.
The people who can afford to vanish, do.
The ones who stay wear masks.
Neighbors become strangers- just sad eyes over fabric. No laughter, just the occasional cough and the faint sound of a grocery bag splitting somewhere in the upper floors.
The entire city feels like a painting by Edward Hopper- the famous one.
But my mind? My mind is a carnival.
It’s a maxed-out data center lit on fire. A gang of angry, dust-covered demons on dirt bikes- revving through my cerebral cortex, kicking over memories, setting synapses ablaze with unspent petrol and the scent of burning oil.
No worries, though. I’ve been eyeing flatbed scanners on Amazon- and I hear that retail therapy provides everlasting spiritual healing.
Of course I’m serious.
I hit the BUY IT NOW button over three hours ago and I’m still high on the endorphins.
Let me know the second the scanner gets here so I can immediately begin hemming and hawing about how I should never have bought something so ridiculous. I’ll gesture dramatically, grieve performatively, and grandstand with righteous conviction about sending it back.
And no, I’m not changing my mind.
…For an entire hour.
Then the fear and loathing will kick back into high gear, and I’ll tear through that box like a pack of bloodthirsty hyenas on the last remaining zebra in the Sahara.
Negatives everywhere.
I forgot what I was scanning.
Or maybe who I am.
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Unplanned Iconography II. This time, its personal. Styled by Naomi Cooper
There’s no craft to it. Not really. Just proximity, a reasonably functional camera, and the willingness to be caught off guard. To see the sacred in the incidental. The theatre in the detritus. You don’t capture these moments so much as agree to host them.
Unplanned Iconography II – Cover
No plan. No prep time.
She opened the window and—
the light begged to watch.
They arrive with no warning—these crooked little visual haikus. A half-drunk espresso reflecting a neon cross. A cigarette burning too far down in the fingers of someone who should’ve left already. The symmetry of strangers. The impolite grace of real life refusing to wait for your shot list.
There’s no craft to it. Not really. Just proximity, a reasonably functional camera, and the willingness to be caught off guard. To see the sacred in the incidental. The theatre in the detritus. You don’t capture these moments so much as agree to host them.
Welcome to Unplanned Iconography: a collection of accidents worth framing.
Carter Guthrie – Midnight Teal Look
Carter Guthrie – Color Studio Editorial
She blinked. I missed it.
But the blur said more than she
ever would out loud.
The Collaborators - Keith and Naomi
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THE REVISIONIST.
Note: The film stills featured here have been re-imagined by cinematographer Keith DeCristo, framed in 2.35:1 and color timed independently of the original film release. These images represent an unreleased visual cut—an artistic expression of what might have been, had the original collaborators remained aligned.
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That Time I Played the Long-Shot and Ended Up at the Great Pyramids | Field Notes from Cairo
“When the gigs dried up and the city froze over, I did what any half-broke creative with a passport and a questionable sense of self-preservation would do: I took a job in Cairo. Here’s how that went.”
Part One.
For any up-and-coming creative freelancer in New York, a "brutal winter" isn’t always about subzero temps. It’s a countdown: how many calendar squares you have to X out before shoots resume, the phone rings again, and you remember what it felt like to matter.
The winter of 2013 was particularly cruel. My bike was still in L.A., and I’d been summoned to New York for a run of gigs that—miracle of miracles—actually kept me working through November. Maybe even December. I didn’t mind the cold; I was grateful for the bookings. That is, until it all went sideways, one script and one phone call later.
It was well past midnight. I’d just finished reading the script for some ambitious indie film and was halfway through budgeting when Marcus, my friend and director, called. He sounded like someone had just told him Santa isn’t real. He apologized—soft, hesitant, mid-sentence—as if his voice might shatter if he said the words too clearly. He was suddenly off the project. I knew exactly what that meant.
When a director gets the axe mid-production, the new blood tends to bring their own tribe. The crew gets reshuffled like a bad poker hand. My heart dropped. I could hear Marcus’s disappointment, but my brain had already shifted into crisis calculus—recoup, regroup, reroute to California, lick wounds.
I asked him what happened. He hesitated. Then said something about picking up [REDACTED] from the airport, a bar detour, a strip club, and the word "cocaine." That’s when I mentally ejected. I stopped listening. Not out of judgment—just sheer bandwidth depletion. My focus had snapped to how long it would take to get back to L.A. and how many zeros were being surgically removed from my winter survival fund.
Goddamned Hollywood.
The Great Sphinx and the Pyramid of Khafre
By mid-January, the cold, gray days began gnawing away at whatever conviction I had left. The liquid courage stopped working. I’d wake up some mornings and find my resolve had gone AWOL, replaced by a quivering mass of nerves and self-loathing. My shoulders, once proud wings of fire, now felt like cracked porcelain.
I began cursing every decision that led me here. If only I’d had a head for spreadsheets, a tolerance for business-casual, a passion for cubicle décor—hell, I could’ve been just another happy drone collecting paychecks at the U.N.
Wait... the U.N.?
I was in a cab one day, staring listlessly out the window as we rattled down 1st Avenue. My cabbie, chatty and convinced of Manhattan’s winter desolation, pointed out the one place still buzzing: the United Nations. Lines of people. Badges flashing. Security checks. Business as usual in the realm of world affairs.
If the bureaucratic behemoth still churned through January, maybe—just maybe—so did the nonprofits under its banner. Organizations with media needs. Propaganda budgets. Internal video briefings, donor campaigns... the kind of scrappy little productions that someone like me could do in his sleep—hungover.
Arned guard on a camel at the Great Pyramid of Giza
The best Cairo fixer ever
THE LONG SHOT
It took an entire afternoon, but by nightfall I’d curated a hit list. One hundred and twenty-three nonprofits operating under the U.N. umbrella. Fifty-three with a physical address in NYC. Thirty-seven had updated websites. Twenty-one answered their phone at 9 a.m. the next day.
A little tequila and a well-rehearsed pitch later, I transformed into the character: an in-demand, salt-of-the-earth Director/DP who just *happened* to be in town between projects and, out of a selfless desire to give back, was offering to donate my world-class services to the right cause.
Your __________ project just spoke to me. Yes, of course you can have my email.
By 11 a.m., I’d landed 21 interested parties. Two needed real security clearance. Eleven weren’t ready to roll until next month. Of the remaining eight, three offered to cover travel and a modest kit fee. Of those three, one was sending a crew...
...to Cairo.
Within 72 hours, I was updating my passport, getting jabbed with needles to prevent exotic biological meltdowns, and being fingerprinted at the Egyptian consulate. The adrenaline alone made me feel invincible. That, and the thick envelope of per diem cash in my jacket. (And yes, I *was* still happy to see you.)
I was back. Back in the game. For about 36 hours.
Then came the letter.
---
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE
18 JAN 2014
RE: Egypt Travel Alert
[INSERT: TRAVEL WARNING TEXT, CONDENSED]
Protests. Violence. Possible death. Don’t take pictures. Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t look American.
---
The reality of it all sank in fast. I’d be flying into political unrest with a crew I barely knew, wondering if anyone would have my back—or even know I *had* one.
I kept replaying that story about Lara Logan. She survived, but barely. I poured myself a drink. Didn’t share the bottle.
The next morning, I woke to soft light and a single, steady thought:
*The people of Egypt live with this reality every day. They don’t get to opt out. But I do—and I won’t. Not this time.*
If I say no today because it’s dangerous, I’ll say no tomorrow for the same reason. And then I’ll never go.
So I packed.
Fear be damned.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Sun-Kissed Pyramid and Camel Guide
That Time I Played the Numbers and Ended Up in Casablanca
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That Time I Almost Got Arrested for Touching Kubrick’s Typewriter
“I came for Kubrick. I stayed for the typewriter. I left before being cuffed. A love letter to a forbidden moment at the Stanley Kubrick Exhibit in LA.”
The Shining Twins Costumes - Kubrick Exhibit at LACMA
Stanley, Forgive Me
Los Angeles has a funny way of reminding you that you’re nobody.
You’ll be standing at a crosswalk beside a man with twelve million followers who only eats blueberries on camera.
Or you’ll stop for a coffee and realize the barista used to be on Riverdale.
Me? I was just riding down Wilshire, hot, over-caffeinated, and trying to remember if I’d paid my phone bill—when I saw it:
THE STANLEY KUBRICK EXHIBITION.
My hands turned the handlebars before my brain caught up.
Now, I don’t know what it says about me that I walked into a shrine to one of the greatest visual tacticians of the 20th century wearing dusty jeans and a helmet under my arm like I was delivering Postmates—but there I was, pretending to be calm, pretending I didn’t want to touch everything.
And then—there it was.
The typewriter.
That typewriter.
No plexiglass. No ropes. Just sitting there.
Like it had been waiting for me.
I didn’t even mean to touch it.
My fingers just… drifted.
Like they were trying to finish a sentence he never wrote.
Adler Typewriter from The Shining - Kubrick Prop Exhibit
All Work and No Play Prop Page - The Shining Exhibit
And that’s when the guard appeared.
Not running. Not yelling.
Just standing two feet away, suddenly very aware of how real this object was.
“Sir, you cannot touch the artifacts.”
The phrase “the artifacts” hit me like a religious slur. I backed away with the shame of a teenager who’d just been caught sniffing their crush’s hoodie.
I didn’t get kicked out.
But I did spend the rest of the exhibit with my hands in my pockets like I was visiting an ex’s parents.
And yet… something about that moment felt right.
Because Kubrick’s whole deal was control.
He lit a single candle for three hours to get the shadow right in Barry Lyndon.
He reshot a hallway scene 127 times.
And here I was—some dusty, unplanned, imperfect visitor—leaving fingerprints where I shouldn’t have.
I think he would’ve hated it.
Which is exactly why I loved it.
Ballroom Photo from The Shining - Kubrick Exhibit Piece
Clockwork Orange Costume Display - Kubrick LACMA 2013
Clockwork Orange Sculpture Props - Kubrick Exhibit
Kubrick's Mitchell BNC 35mm Camera - LACMA Exhibit 2013
Stanley Kubrick A Cam - Mitchell BNC Focus Detail
Born to Kill Helmet - Full Metal Jacket Exhibit
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One Day in September | A Tribute in Images and Haiku
Some stories are too sacred to summarize. “One Day in September” pairs images and haiku to honor the ones who stayed, the ones who were lost, and the ones who still carry the silence.
Powerful imagery and haiku reflecting the lingering grief, courage, and memory of September 11. A quiet tribute for those who still carry the weight.
1988 Audi 100 Turbo Quattro Parked at Brooklyn Promenade – Vintage NYC Car Photo
PREAMBLE
A good part of the internet is no doubt saturated with pictures of American flags, NYC Firefighters, patriotic MEME's and stories of uncommon valor.
For those of you who have had just about enough of all that, I present to you a picture of my old car. A 1988 Audi Turbo Quattro, with engine mods and suspension upgrades, clad in metallic pearl and black leather.
Now for the rest…
One breath. One wrong floor.
You were late by thirty steps.
And now, always late.
Early Morning Skyline - Ektachrome NYC Aftermath
Glass fell like sharp rain.
I just stood there, holding breath—
my coffee went cold.
Lower Manhattan, World Trade Center | Nikon F2, Nikkor 135mm f2 | KODAK Ektachrome 200
Smoke climbed past the sky.
Something inside me whispered—
we’re not going back.
View from the Brooklyn Queens Expressway - Tower Collapse | Nikon F2, KODAK Ektachrome 200
No cries. Just silence.
We searched seven days straight through
what used to be floors.
Smoke Engulfs NYC - 9/11 Ground Zero Wide Shot
Your side stays smooth, still.
I fold the covers each day-
some truths crease softly.
Union Square Park becomes the epicenter of mourning.
Smoke still in my lungs.
They told me not to hold hate-
but it holds me back..
Union Square Park becomes the epicenter of mourning.
Mask over my face.
Not to breathe—but not to stop.
I found your bracelet.
Origami Crane Memorial - 9/11 Tribute Symbolism
They call me brave now.
But I just showed up that day.
I still do. That’s all.
Graffitied H&M Ad Parody - 9/11 Truth
You left me your strength.
I found it in strange places-
a laugh, a cracked door.
Red Sky at Night - September 11 in NYC
Years later it came.
Not debris this time- but cells,
rebuilding in rage.
Manhattan Skyline, circa 1998 | Nikon F2, Nikkor 50mm f1.4 | KODAK Plus-X
Coffee in silence.
The picture frame fogs again.
I whisper your name.
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Models before 10am
Models Before Ten AM is a photographic study of presence, distance, and the unscripted intimacy of early morning light. The series captures women in lingerie not as objects, but as subjects in quiet states of thought—moments suspended between solitude and awareness. More romantic than erotic, more observational than performative, the work navigates beauty, loneliness, and permission without apology.
There is a certain quality to the morning that starts at first light, and disappears by noon.
Models Before Ten AM began as a technical experiment in light and tone, and quietly revealed itself to be something else entirely: a study in quiet, a meditation on presence, and - perhaps - a slight undertone of loneliness.
The women in these images are not objects of desire, but subjects of internal landscapes. They are thinkers. Wanderers. Sometimes amused. Sometimes remote. Often paused in that fragile moment before the day begins, and the mask must go on.
Yes, there is skin. And lingerie. But if that’s all you see, you’ve missed the entire story.
Behind-the-scenes look at Tal B. getting makeup from Anastasia Staley, on the Venice Canal shoot for 'Models Before 10AM' by Keith DeCristo.
Dreamy, soft-toned portrait of a blonde model lounging in bikini on a bed. Keith DeCristo's signature morning vibe.
The romance here isn’t erotic—it’s existential.
It’s the romance of distance. Of permission. Of trust offered just long enough to be documented, but never owned.
And yes, it may owe something to the way I grew up—not with porn, but with Playboy. Not with anatomy, but with allure. Not with conquest, but with curiosity.
Keith DeCristo's dreamy retro capture of a blonde model basking in soft bed light before 10 AM.
Artistic black and white portrait of a brunette model in lingerie, photographed in natural, reflected sunlight.
Photo of a blonde model, Deanna Oerman, dressed in lingerie and relaxing., in Keith DeCristo's beauty lighting.
This is not a seduction, But a collaboration.
An invitation to capture the hum before the performance. The person before the persona.
And maybe, in some small way, it’s about the loneliness of the observer too.
Model in Natural Light – Editorial Photo, Makeup Anastasia Staley
High contrast and mood-rich portrait of a blonde model in black boots and bikini, by Keith DeCristo.
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Un-Planned Iconography Vol. One: The Civillian Cover Story
I used to think the best images were the ones you planned—the ones where the talent hit their mark, the light spilled just right, and the whole damn thing looked like it belonged on a moodboard next to a quote from Tarkovsky and an ashtray.
But- the ones that stick with me? They’re almost always the throwaways.
Framed it. Lit it. Clicked.
Then tripped, and the test shot won.
I hate that I love it.
Unplanned Iconography – Canon C300 & 5DMK3 Promo
I used to think the best images were the ones you planned—the ones where the talent hit their mark, the light spilled just right, and the whole damn thing looked like it belonged on a moodboard next to a quote from Tarkovsky and an ashtray.
But the ones that stick with me? They’re almost always the throwaways. The test frame before the pose. The grip leaning just a little too perfectly into frame. A pigeon ruining someone’s attempt at sincerity. There’s a strange, stubborn poetry to the things I didn’t mean to shoot.
I don’t know, maybe I’m just noticing more. Or maybe I’m finally letting go of the myth that anything can be controlled. Maybe these images say more about how I really see the world than all the ones I lit within an inch of their life.
Welcome to Unplanned Iconography: a collection of accidents worth framing.
Model Lounging in Sun Chair – Iconic Poolside Image
Male Model Emerging from Infinity Pool – LA Skyline
Model in Sunglasses with Windblown Hair – Black & White Close-Up
Model Dancing with Headphones – Hollywood Hills Infinity Pool
On this shoot, the unexpected thing takes form of an outlier.
The woman in these photos is not a model by profession, or even a hobby. I became known of this fact during preproduction, when I asked for a headshot or a reel and learned that I would not be getting one, nor would it be possible to add the lights and diffusion tools that I would need to sculpt a civilian into celebrity. Turns out, I was worried for nothing. This forty-something civilian stole the show with a natural, captivating energy, solid creative instincts, and not a single bad angle to be found.
Among some photographers, this is known as: “When the model does all the work”.
Mostly natural light. At the top of the day I leaned heavily on a variable ND plus a polarizer to maintain a f5.6/f8.0 split, sometimes using the architecture of the location to avoid harsh light. In the afternoon we switched to 4x4 bounce cards. On the last setup we turned on the only light that ever played- an HMI that I was using to emulate something I call “The David Lachapelle High Key”.
Canon C300 | Canon 5DMK3
Arri Master Primes
L-Series Canon Glass
Tiffen Glimmer Glass, Black Pro Mist
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SE7EN DAYS TO CALI | Cross-Country Motorcycle Memoir
“I got the call, packed the bike, and left New York with 3,500 miles between me and what I couldn’t say out loud. A cross-country ride with ghosts riding pillion.”
ACT ONE: THE CALL
It wasn’t raining the day she called, but it felt like it had been.
I was knee-deep in a production job that had long since stopped being glamorous—long days, longer nights, and a schedule so brutal it made eating a luxury and sleep a rumor. The shoot wasn’t set to wrap for another week and a half. I’d been running on fumes and protein bars, the kind that promise “clean energy” and taste like regret.
My phone rang during a break that hadn’t been approved but wasn’t quite denied either.
Lilian.
She was the kind of woman you remember—long hair, deeper eyes, and a way of looking at you that made you wish you’d said smarter things. She used to watch me when I was a kid. Made me birthday cakes that probably rewired my brain chemistry. First crush, if we’re being honest. And though life had marched on in opposite directions, her voice still had a place in me that didn’t age. Back to the most important- the fact that she’s calling, and the news can’t be good.
“Bobby stopped chemo,” she said. “He only did one round. Yeah. He couldn’t handle it.”
There was a pause—those heavy, quiet seconds that carry more truth than anything you could say out loud.
“If you want to see him… you know, I think it should be now.”
No drama. No persuasion. Just that.
I didn’t need to think it through. I’d already missed enough. Enough weddings, birthdays, Sunday barbecues with plastic forks and unresolved family tension. Whatever. Someday.
Except, there was no room for a “someday.” Unless you mix in that classic reverb-echo that tells the audience it’s all a lie. Before now, death-bed requests were only in the books that I read or in the shows that I watched. To receive one now, to hear the request from the voice of a woman who is certain of a grim outcome, is a matter of a different kind.
Black and white photograph of a 1998 BMW R1100GS motorcycle parked in an urban alley with graffiti, shot on a Canon 7D.
GEAR CHECK
The GS- my battle-worn, winter-proof Bavarian beast- a sweet reward after directing something corporate enough to afford me a used track bike with character. Armored and lit up like a spacecraft, with TKC-80 knobby tires that were there bail me out of inexperience or bad decisions- and mostly to hop dividers in gridlock, or quickly make myself scarce when some of my juvenile antics caught the attention of traffic enforcement. I’m not suggesting that you can hide a 500lb, bright red adventure bike darting across sidewalk, but if I’m in the zone, you can’t really catch one, either.
Another blessing: maintenance had always been ritualistic. A mix of obsession, affection, and duty. I once asked a mechanic with many track and travel days of experience to pull from, how often he changed his oil, and he said without flinching, “every one-thousand miles. We’re always pounding on the throttle like a race bike. Act accordingly.”
Packing, as you might expect, was less “strategic planning” and more “get the hell out of Dodge with what fits.”
Both side panniers got clothing, which was not easy, considering the mixing of the seasons that I will encounter during my East cost to West coast trip.
The top rear case got bike and rider support items: tools, oil, zip ties, electrical tape, water. Snacks. More snacks.
My documentary/street beauty camera package rode pillion in a weather-sealed, low-key backpack- but I won’t find out later that I’d only take it off the bike into rooms where I slept- never to shoot.
And yeah… there was a woman from Kansas City, and though I believe this not the time nor place, let’s just say we spent a year breaking up, and I owe her an apology.
As expected, last-minute things ate into my 3 hour-buffer, and instead of leaving at 7am to beat traffic, I was wheels up at 11, right through the thick of it.
Dynamic rear view of a BMW R1100GS in motion on a desert highway under swirling clouds, shot with iPhone 4.
BMW 1100GS at a Valero gas station at night
BMW R1100GS at first light in the South West.
Motorcycle in Desert Gas Stop/Local Bar
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That Time I Used the Force… and Shot for ELLE UK | Behind the Lens
In 2012, I was broken, brilliant, and about to fake my way into one of the most iconic shoots of my career. This is the story of burnout, blind luck, and how a Canon 1DX with no silent shutter forced me into post-production witchcraft that somehow landed me in the pages of ELLE UK. Warning: contains eagles, French cigarettes, and emotional whiplash.
A behind-the-scenes tale of burnout, brilliance, and blind luck—the day I hit creative rock bottom and landed a dream gig anyway.
Looking from the inside out—with the grim clarity of hindsight, after multiple rounds of introspective dissection and enough mirror-staring to qualify as psychological warfare—I still struggle to describe the man I’d become by 2012. Not honestly, at least. Not politely.
I’d played the role of card-carrying creative professional for 5,326 consecutive days. No breaks. No vacations. No reprieve from the madness. Just a marathon of deadlines, deliverables, and the slow erosion of soul that comes from turning your passion into your paycheck.
Has anyone here seen the movie Home for the Holidays?
Bogey. Par. Bogey. Bogey. Par. Par. Bogey. Par. Bogey. Bogey. Bogey. Bogey. Bogey. Bogey.
Bogey. Eagle.
Repeat.
This, friends, is what forging a career in the entertainment industry looks like. A cruel, looping scorecard where some of those bogeys hit like bricks to the ribs—and they don’t wait for you to recover. Oh no. They bring backup. Ugly, swing-happy cousins with bad timing and worse breath. Before you know it, you’re face-down on the mat, right next to the spot where you were last kicked. You’ll swear the floor is getting familiar.
And yeah, go ahead—say it: “I’ve had enough of this shit.”
Of course you have. We all have. Especially after whispering to ourselves, over and over, that self-medication counts as spiritual hygiene. (Spoiler: it doesn’t.) And just when the blackness starts creeping into your daylight, when the last glimmer of optimism is being smothered beneath the weight of the next unpaid invoice...
An eagle. Out of nowhere.
Your body goes weightless. The fog lifts. And suddenly, you’re standing under a creative waterfall—washed clean by pure, uncut joy. A day’s work that felt like flying. One of those rare, godlike moments when the camera obeys, the team syncs, and the light kisses everything just right.
You celebrate the only way that feels true:
French bistro. Late-night. Your crew beside you.
Buttery entrees. Bottles emptied. Illicit restroom rituals.
Post-prandial cigarettes, flicked with cinematic flair.
If the timing’s right, you might even catch the sunrise bleeding across the Manhattan skyline. It never gets old. It never loses power.
But later—hungover and spiritually gutted—you’ll face the truth.
You’ve got nothing booked. Your calendar is a desert.
And the next paid gig? A total mystery.
THE POINT.
It’s not enough to love what you do. You’ve got to be hopelessly, delusionally *in love* with it.
It’s a dysfunctional romance—your art is a seductress with lipstick smudged and excuses rehearsed. She shows up late, smelling of alcohol and regret, and you… you welcome her like a fool in love.
To survive, you must Jedi-mind-trick your ego into submission. You must romanticize rejection, fetishize failure, and mistake misery for meaning.
Wait—hold on.
Did you hear that?
Sorry. That was a producer friend calling. He’s in town for a shoot. Needs a camera op. Someone he trusts. His guy bailed.
And just like that… I’m booked.
No big deal, right? Just a throwaway gig.
Except—spoiler—it’s for one of the biggest fashion publishers on Earth.
A few weeks later, my BTS stills land across six global editions. The checks clear. In Euros.
And I walk away with some of the most iconic images of my entire career.
So… what was I saying?
Something about eagles.
Let me get back to you.
📸 TECHNICAL SPECS:
Location:
Milk Studios, NYC – 20,000 sq. ft. daylight studio (AKA the suntrap of the gods)
Camera Body:
Canon 1DX (DSLR, no silent shutter)
Novoflex EOS-Nikon F Adapter
Workaround:
Due to set restrictions, I couldn’t shoot stills. Instead, I shot 4K video at max resolution, pulled selects via After Effects, converted frames to DNG, de-noised, and up-res’d each final image in Photoshop.
“Was it ideal? No. Did it work? Better than anyone expected.”
Lenses (Vintage Nikon F-mount primes, mid-70s):
50mm f/1.9
105mm f/2
135mm f/2.8
Filtration & Accessories:
Tiffen Glimmer Glass 1
Chrosziel Matte Box
Gitzo Monopod
Dreamy black and white closeup of Nadine Ponce being brushed with makeup, photographed by Keith DeCristo during an ELLE UK shoot.
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Focused black and white portrait of Gucci Westman mid-application during a high-profile beauty shoot for ELLE UK at Milk Studios NYC
Behind-the-scenes profile photo of Nadine Ponce in the makeup chair, photographed during a fashion editorial with makeup by Gucci Westman
Nadine poses dramatically in front of a teal backdrop as the main photographer, David Slijper, captures the moment mid-shoot.
Dramatic black and white portrait of Nadine Ponce using curtain light effect, part of Keith DeCristo’s BTS beauty shoot for ELLE UK.
“I believe every man’s finest hour, his greatest fulfillment to all he holds dear, is that moment after he has fought, with all of his heart, for a worthy cause, and lies exhausted on the field of battle, victorious.”
— Vince Lombardi
Ethereal beauty portrait of Nadine Ponce in a sheer dress set against a vibrant yellow background, captured by Keith DeCristo.
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