Kylie Lane Photography

06/16/2026

waiting to be back in wonderland

06/11/2026

06/01/2026

in a little dream

04/23/2026

Moments I loved from the second the shutter clicked, but that I was too scared to share. Smoking w**d on my wedding photography page? Scandalous.

F**k it. I will always be a sucker for the shape of hands.

04/22/2026

been feeling at home lately
happy earth day

03/13/2026

I’ve always been a valley girl. First and foremost, a Freshwater valley girl. A Wrangletown valley girl. Where the trees were taller than I could ever hope to be and they blocked out every view except the sky. My feet were in the dirt and in the w**ds and tweezers were my friend.

My hands were submerged in creek water. And one summer, grammie asked us to do the creek walk; we got so deep, my heart was under water.

And then a different summer, I realized I am also a giovanoli Val Bregaglia. The place in which my maiden name meant something so big, I couldn't comprehend. Quite literally, “young/youthful/young person”. It is a name that was so at home, it was engraved on every other headstone.

It is the place where all you can see are alps and rolling hills that cascade down to the bluest river. Chestnut trees and little huts with the freshest water fountains. A village on the hill, a white building with green shutters, where people take off their shoes and let their bare feet out on cobblestone paths. It feels like home in more than one way. It feels like the place I am from and like the place I will always be. Maybe my ashes will one day be sprinkled beside my grandparents’.

I wonder why they ever packed their bags and left that place behind. I wonder how often they felt homesick for it. I wonder why they wanted more than perfection. I wonder why the feeling of home can sometimes not be enough. I think I inherited that from them.

But without that feeling, I would never exist. And so I wonder who will exist because I have that feeling too.

The valleys are my home. Where everything comes together and the water runs through it.

03/11/2026

I was crying, so naturally my clouded eyes led me to the garden.

I used to pick my face, but now I pick plants… an interesting turn of events.

I pick the sorrel first, because it is tart and reminds me of that time in the forest that I stuffed my face too full of clovers. Then, a head full of red lettuce. I shook out the dirt and the earwigs.

Then the sugar snaps. If you are patient enough, she reveals where all her best peas are hiding in the shade. I pick the green onions, because they are abundant and tell me where they could use a little room to breathe.

Borage flowers are a new love of mine. I hear they are good for grief. They taste like cucumber and they look like blue twinkly stars. I work around the bees and leave them plenty behind. That’s what the garden taught me — how to take just the right amount. Leave enough to be shared, but harvest enough to make room for new.

I gather the fallen stars that have been knocked off their stems by the wind, suspended on blades of grass.

It’s just a garden salad. And then I realize my eyes are clear again. It’s the best recipe I know.

02/11/2026

Radio silence does no good for a world at war with itself. I have noticed myself retreating and avoiding places of discomfort… posting on online being one of them. In that silent place, I have also come to know facets of myself that will never go away, no matter the circumstance.

I have felt deep sadness and deep anger, and those polarities coexist all at once. I have felt disappointed, yet hopeful, and I have also watched myself sugarcoat my truths all along the way. The truth is, I am beginning to no longer care about how you all perceive me, what you think of my work, or if you think I am wise or stupid.

I don’t care at all, in fact, because we have some bigger fish to fry, and I am tired of letting the pan smoke.

I am so so angry at the hatred in this country. I am livid at the belief that some people believe they are more worthy of this life than others, and that they are no longer ashamed to share those beliefs out loud.

So, here is my very clear, concise message:

If you, in the slightest, believe that people of color are less worthy than you — unfollow me. Do not hire me to create art for you.

If you, in the slightest, believe that people who love “the wrong” gender are less worthy than you — unfollow me. Do not hire me to create art for you.

If you, in the slightest, believe that the direction this country is going at this moment in time is positive — unfollow me. Do not hire me to create art for you.

If you, in the slightest, believe our president is a good man — unfollow me. Do not hire me to create art for you.

For I have been angry and silent for too long. I am done being digestible, and I am done creating for anyone that doesn’t share my belief that love is the only universal truth. Love thy neighbor, even if they are brown, gay, and liberal. Every single person deserves to feel safe in their own country. If you disagree, our hearts will simply never see eye to eye, and I cannot create good art in service of a sour heart.

12/03/2025

The other night, I walked up the hill, overlooking the yellow house we are calling home for the moment.

There were lavender clouds dusted across a baby blue sky, and there were four words planted in my brain. Such a simple sentence.

“This matters so much”

That’s all I heard and my head played it on repeat.

The other night, I danced in circles under trees waving wildly in the wind. Tossing a ball for my dog, as my love watched from the porch. The clouds were orange then.

This matters so much.

Many nights ago, there was a candlelit aisle and evening light coming through arched windows.

This matters so much.

11/21/2025

A moment for taking in the sunset and sea air