When I first encountered Thalía Gochez’s work in 2022, it felt kismet. Gochez’s work graced the cover of Aperture’s “Latinx” issue, which was entirely dedicated to the work of historical and contemporary Latinx photographers. Everything about the image drew me in, from the large, textured hoop earrings and slicked back baby hairs to the cat eyeliner and acrylic nails worn by the young women. As I looked into her work more, I became an admirer of how she portrayed Black and Indigenous people and people of color as their authentic self, in locations of comfort and familiarity.
For Gochez, this intimacy is crucial to her practice as she is concerned with celebrating and honoring the cultural identity of the people she photographs. Her images not only highlight her ties to Los Angeles, they also challenge the societal beauty standards of mainstream media by centering people of color.
I spoke with Gochez about her start as a photographer, her Los Angeles roots, and her attempts to reframe images of Latinx experiences and existence.
Karla Mendez: Can you speak a bit about your start as a photographer?
Thalía Gochez: I moved out of Los Angeles in 2017. I wouldn’t say I was a troubled youth, but I was definitely struggling with a lot of grief. My Dad had passed away and I was feeling very reckless and didn’t want to stay in L.A.
I moved to San Francisco and stayed on a friend’s couch. I’ve always been a creative person, but up until that point I didn’t express myself through photography, I expressed myself through fashion.
At this point, I was so disinterested in academia and I was only going for the financial aid money. But I was like I might as well do something that semi-interests me, so I took a couple of fashion courses. One of them was a styling course in which I worked closely with the photographer. During the photoshoot I felt the urge to take the camera from the photographer and do it myself.
That feeling stuck with me. It was also during 2017, when Trump was in office and there was a deep lack of, and I hate using this hyper-popularized word, but, “representation.” Fashion catered to whiteness and I didn’t relate to that. I wanted to see folks that looked like me and came from my area. The beauty that I saw in my living room, I wanted it to reach beyond that door.
I realized after that that I should probably listen to that urge and do something about it. So I went to my local purga and I got a film camera for $1.
KM: Whoa.
TG: I kid you not. He handed me the camera and said “listen I don’t know if it works, just give me a $1 for it.” It ended up being one of the most instrumental tools I’ve ever had in my life. I started photographing folks in my local community—girls I felt I connected with. I would style and creative direct the shoots, too, creating a story of substance.
I would photograph girls in my local community, in areas they were connected to and an environment that mirrored their identity. Everyday during that first year [of making photos], I photographed every chance I could. I had no technical background. I’d never picked up a camera in my life. I was doing it because I loved it. I often look back at that time and get emotional because it was pure creativity. There was no judgment. There was no skill set. It was pure heart and I never want to lose that.
KM: I think that’s one of the reasons I feel so drawn to your work. It feels very personal and I can tell that you care deeply about the people you’re photographing. You really try to get to the root of who they are as a person.
TG: I think there’s a lot of power in photography and it is a great way to build community. We all have shared experiences.
KM: How exactly do you see your work creating community or strengthening the existing communities?
TG: There’s something very celebratory and empowering in community. I remember a girl I photographed told me that I shot in a way that feels like I am placing the people in my photographs in a regal position. I never noticed that, but that’s the way I view them. I always want the lighting to have this warm, glowing effect on their skin tone. When I start a photoshoot, I always say that I don’t have any rules except that we have fun. I prioritize joy. It’s an energy that ripples into the community. I’m very mindful of what I photograph and what I share with my community and supporters. Aside from photography, there’s other things I make sure to do, like my work with the non-profit organization Los Fotos Project. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them.
KM: Yeah, I have. I just read they had some equipment stolen.
TG: They were burglarized. It’s super heartbreaking. A colleague of mine, Enkrypt Los Angeles, and photographer Brittany Bravo, organized a fundraiser where people could have their photo taken in support of the organization. It’s such a pillar in our community for young girls of color, especially in a predominantly Latino neighborhood like Boyle Heights.
I always say you have to do more than take photographs. I believe in representation not only in front of the camera, but behind the camera. Everyone behind the camera is part of the community. I’m very mindful of that as well because it also affects the person I’m photographing. If they’re looking back and all they see are white faces, that’s going to impact how they feel.
KM: I really like that your work is described as a “site of safety” for Black and Indigenous people and people of color. Can you elaborate on what that means and looks like for you. Do you find that you’re not only creating a “site of safety” for the people you’re shooting but also for yourself?
TG: That’s nice to hear, but I’ve always said that I can’t guarantee safety. The world is unpredictable. We’re constantly met with hate crimes and violence. I have a level of privilege being a lighter skinned Latina, but sometimes the folks I photograph are not granted that because they have deeper complexion [than mine]. I understand that when I’m out in the world with them, I can’t fully guarantee safety, but we can create a sense of safety the best we can.
So what does that look like? I have to move with a set of principles, like integrity and love. I move with consent. The people that I photograph know that I’m taking their photograph. Even after the photoshoot, if the images are going to live in publications or art shows, they have to be on board and aware of where their image is living. I need to know their boundaries and needs. A lot of the time I’m photographing folks in their homes and there’s a sense of privilege in having access to that space.
For example, I photographed a mother and child. She didn’t feel comfortable with her child being photographed so we got creative with capturing the essence of motherhood and the child’s energy without showing their face. I wouldn’t have known that if I hadn’t set up a space that felt safe with clear communication.
I never want someone to leave and feel violated. I can’t live with myself and sleep at night knowing that they feel any type of way, especially because photography has historically been an elitist practice. It’s been a practice of weird power dynamics and struggle resulting in a gap between subject and photographer. I’ve seen photography used as a weapon, but I’ve also seen it used as a weapon of liberation, and that’s the path that I want to take.
KM: There are horror stories about photographers using their power to take advantage of their subjects. It’s refreshing and inspiring that you put so much effort into ensuring that the people you shoot feel at ease and comfortable around you, especially because you are taking photographs of people of color who could potentially not have that elsewhere in their lives.
TG: I’ve seen it in my community with a lot of cis-male photographs using photography as veiled misogyny. Why is every picture of yours of a woman in a hypersexualized way? It’s bizarre.
KM: How do you become acquainted with the people you shoot? How do you find them?
TG: It’s situational. Sometimes it’s a friend of a friend, sometimes it’s a cousin. A lot of times it’s people on the streets. I photographed this girl, her name is Yesenia, at her family’s restaurant, after seeing her at the supermercado. She was in line holding her baby on her hip and she had her work clothes on, and she looked so cool to me!
I was like, “I need to photograph her,” but I didn’t know how to approach her because I didn’t want to seem weird or creepy. She went into the parking lot and I damn near ran up on her. I was like “I’m Thalía! You’re a bad bitch, can I photograph you?” She thought I was trying to photograph her child. And I was like “no, no, I want to photograph you,” and she was surprised. We ended up exchanging numbers and talking. We developed a friendship and realized we came from the same neighborhood. I’d actually been to her family restaurant and she lived by my grandma, so there was a connection there already. A couple of months later we ended up doing the photoshoot in her family’s restaurant and they ended up being some of my favorite photographs. Sometimes it’s random like that, although I think it’s divinely orchestrated.
KM: To me, mainstream media depicts California culture as being very blonde hair, blue eyes. But Mexicans, Mexican-Americans, Chicanos, Chicanas, and their culture are vital to California history and culture. Do you hope to restructure what and who is portrayed as a quintessential Californian? Do you view your work as challenging these ideals?
TG: My initial reaction is I’m not trying to do anything. I’m just trying to photograph the beauty that I see. My work is contemporary, but there’s also a heavy sense of nostalgia. I’m photographing people in a way that pulls at our childhood heartstrings. My early inspiration was photographs of my mother that my father would take on his film camera. Sometimes she was in Mexico and others she was in Highland Park in front of my grandparents’ house with my tias. I’m also inspired by my cousins and their outfits in the ’90s and how they did their hair. I don’t feel like my intention is to showcase what California is or what it was, but to showcase what I’ve seen and experienced.
KM: For anyone who is from a Latin American nation to be able to look at your images and see themselves reflected in such an organic and accurately representative of cultures and identities, and not in a hyper sexualized or stereotypical way is beautiful and empowering.
TG: Or in a traumatizing way. I feel like in a lot of media our suffering is highlighted. That’s always been at the forefront. Everytime we see Latino stories on mainstream media, it’s people crossing the border or committing crime. But that’s not the only Latin American identity.
KM: I also appreciate how you’re not trying to play by these rules of respectability that are often forced on us.
TG: Honestly, a lot of times I’m just photographing folks in what they normally wear or how they normally are.
KM: How does your work challenge appropriation of your culture and community?
TG: When I was taking fashion merchandising courses in college, I saw the cultural appropriation [of my culture] in fashion. I saw a lot of trends that were derived from my culture. I saw them being put on people that had no connection to our lifestyle or identity. It made me a little mad and I had a deep desire to reclaim these things.
The people that I’m photographing are connected to their clothing through their identity.
KM: Do you see your work as a form of activism?
TG: I think any type of art that honors and celebrates Black and Indigenous people and people of color is revolutionary.
A lot of the times when we see our experiences and stories broadcast, it’s through trauma and pain. A lot of my work is trying to celebrate our experiences in the most impactful way—through joy and laughter and honesty. When I first started photography it was to not only combat a lack of representation, but I also felt this deep rage after Donald Trump was elected. I choose to transform that through art. I now see my art as a cultural archive. I want brown kids in twenty or thirty years to be inspired by my work and feel represented and loved.
KM: How do you see your work continuing to evolve?
TG: I see the world through the lens of an artist. My art will evolve as I evolve. Who I am today isn’t the same woman I was four or five years ago when I first picked up a camera. How I engage with the folks I photograph has always been intentional but it’s a lot more sacred now because of how I’ve evolved as a woman. I see my work growing as high as the ceiling will take me and expanding beyond photography. My creativity is limitless and I always want to keep that confidence and perspective because as a woman of color, I’m forced into a box. I don’t abide by those rules. I’m constantly pushing every boundary, expectation and burden that’s put on me. I have immense privilege in a lot of ways, and I honor that, but I’ve also been in rooms where people have told me that I can’t do something and that has fueled me more to prove them wrong. I’ve gotten so many beautiful opportunities and campaigns, but I think what has kept me going the most is that I’ve always believed in my work before anybody else. I’ve always had the perspective that if a white male can do it, why can’t I? As far as creativity or mental strength, I feel like I’m capable of achieving anything I put my heart into. I deeply believe that.