Thalia Gochez: “It’s a privilege to take someone’s photograph.”
Interview for Humanos.zine
Words: José Enrique Montes Hernandez
Location: Zoom call (Guatemala ↔ Los Angeles)
Language: English (lightly edited for clarity)
Thalia Gochez is a Los Angeles–based photographer whose work feels like a warm hug: intimate, saturated with color, rooted in community, and driven by love. In this conversation, we talk about diaspora identity, grief, finding photography through urgency, working with major brands without losing your voice, and the ethics of photographing people who are often exploited by the industry.
Quick context
I’m José Enrique Montes Hernández — Salvadoran-born, raised in Canada, now based in Guatemala. I work with Humanos.zine, focusing on voices from the Latin diaspora: artists whose roots are in Latin America, but whose lives and work unfold outside of it.
Thalia fits right into that conversation.
The interview
J: Hey, Talia?
T: Hi, hello.
J: Hey — how are you? English or Spanish?
T: English is probably better. My español… poquito.
J: All good. How’s it going?
T: Good, good. Where are you from?
J: I’m from El Salvador. I grew up in Canada. I lived in the Dominican Republic, Taiwan, and now I’m in Guatemala.
T: Oh my God — wow. I love it. My dad’s from El Salvador, my mom’s from Mexico, but I was born in Los Angeles.
J: So your dad is from El Salvador?
T: Yes — he’s from Tacuba, a little outside the capital.
J: And he immigrated when he was young?
T: Yeah. He came to the US when he was about 14 — by himself. Literally, you know the story: no money, maybe a handful of dollars. The first person to migrate from my family was my tia — she came and worked as a nanny.
My grandpa was like, “Okay, it’s time for you to go to the US,” because the civil war was happening and he didn’t want him in that. So he shipped him to the United States when he was 14, to New Jersey. He stayed with my tia for a bit, but pretty much he was on his own.
Then when he got older — around 18 — he went to high school, and the rest of my family migrated to California. That’s when he came over. But by then he was already a grown man… he lived his adolescent years by himself.
J: Wow.
T: Crazy. The immigrant story… I feel like so many people in Los Angeles are kids of immigrants, so we share that thread — our parents fighting for a better life for us.
J: Do you know the book Solito?
T: No, I don’t.
J: It’s about a kid from El Salvador who goes to the States — like the hard way, coyotes and everything.
T: Wow. I’m definitely going to look that up. I love novels — so I’ll check it out.
J: I’ll send you the info. I was wondering if it was your mom or dad. Cool.
T: My dad, yeah. It’s funny because in LA, the identity that’s highlighted is Mexican. So growing up, I had more access to my Mexican side.
And El Salvador was always framed as dangerous — muy peligroso — “you can’t go there.” So I always had a longing for that part of my identity. As I got older and became more creative, I tried to connect to that through stories — talking to family — and through my work. It’s a theme in my work, I’m sure you can see.
J: Yeah — identity.
J: I’ll do a quick rundown of me too. I was born in El Salvador — we left because of the civil war around 1990, immigrated to Canada as refugees. Stayed until 1999, then moved to the Dominican Republic for a couple years. I studied photography and film.
Back to Montreal, worked in fashion photography and advertising for almost 20 years. I’m 42. Then I worked with graffiti artists — documenting — and that led me to curate exhibitions, work in galleries. I put photography aside for a while. Moved to Taiwan for 7–8 years, started my own gallery — lowbrow, graffiti, street art. Now we’ve been in Guatemala for three years.
Now I’m collaborating with Humanos. It promotes Latin voices and Latin artists. My focus is Latin-rooted artists who live outside Latin America — diaspora. You fit that: your parents are from Latin America, but you grew up here, surrounded by it. So the interviews are about understanding that perspective.
T: Absolutely. It’s a different experience. And there’s privilege in my experience — I talk about that. It’s unique but also shared. In LA, a lot of Latino kids share the same thread — how our moms are, how our dads are. And the language — my mom speaks Spanish, I respond in English. Spanglish. It’s different than someone who grew up in Mexico their whole life.
“Nostalgia, color and culture, and women.”
J: So for people who don’t know you — can you introduce yourself and what you do?
T: My name is Thalia Gochez, born and raised in Los Angeles. My mom’s from Mexico, my dad’s from El Salvador.
A lot of my work is celebrating, uplifting, and honoring my cultural identity. I’m inspired by my heritage, by women, and by my childhood — those three pillars inform my work. Nostalgia, color and culture, and women. Those are my guiding lights.
J: How did photography come into your life? What did you feel when you first picked up the camera?
T: Growing up I had no real access to the arts — not because of anything specific, just not accessible. Sports were accessible, so I was into soccer. I played club — soccer was the relationship I had with my father.
But creatively, I always felt I had something to express — lots of emotion. I always felt like I had more emotion than other people. I didn’t know how to say what I felt.
When I turned 18, I was dealing with grief — my father — and I didn’t know how to handle it. I moved out of LA, moved to San Francisco with a friend, slept on her couch. To sustain myself, I went to city college because of financial aid.
I joined fashion merchandising because I loved fashion. I took a styling course, and for a project I conceptualized a shoot and worked with a photographer. During the shoot I felt this urge — deep, almost painful — to take the camera from him. Like, “I could do this.” And I listened to that.
I was in my early 20s. Everyone else seemed like they had it figured out, and I felt lost. But I had this mentality: if he can do it, why can’t I? What’s different? That’s gotten me far — go-getter mentality, even as a woman of color. So the next day I went to the pulga — the flea market.
J: Yeah.
T: A vendor was selling broken stuff and had film cameras. I asked how much — he said one dollar. He said he didn’t know if it worked. I bought it anyway. That camera became a tool that changed my life.
I figured it out myself — no classes. Exposure, aperture — foreign language to me. I had seen my dad’s film camera before, so I understood the concept. I conceptualized my own shoot, styled my homegirl down to her socks.
Also, Trump had just joined the administration, and there was rage in the community. I had rage in one hand and my camera in the other — a tool for liberation. It was urgent — political response and emotional.
I was grieving, lost, anxious — like not present in my body. Therapy helped, and photography was the only time I felt present. Behind the camera, I was focused: hair, how she looks, details. When the camera was down, my mind was worry and anxiety. So yes — liberation for the community, but first, liberation for me.
That first shoot, I knew I wanted to highlight fashion and story. Through fashion merchandising I saw lack of representation — stories I connected with weren’t there. I wanted to change that narrative.
So my work became style and story. I wanted people to look beyond a fashion-led visual and enter someone’s world. I didn’t know the name for it then — docu-style fashion editorial. I was just making what I needed to see.
I photographed my homegirl in her neighborhood and highlighted her and where she’s from. I used the neighborhood not as a prop, but as the most authentic backdrop — her roots were there. That’s always been a theme.
“I want the work to feel like a warm hug.”
J: When someone sees your work — maybe a Nike campaign or Converse — what do you want the photos to transmit?
T: I want people — especially the right people, especially women of color — to feel connected to themselves. I want the work to feel like a warm hug. Love. Connection. There’s so much violence and hate.
I want women of color to feel empowered in their body, like they can do anything, like they are beautiful. And I never wanted to be political, but I’m realizing: anytime you honor people of color truthfully, it becomes political, because it goes against what they want for us.
Microaggressions, big brands, and protecting your voice
J: As a Latina woman doing commercial work with big brands — do you face resistance? Like, does your last name affect how you navigate these spaces?
T: There’s always some form of racism in the industry — microaggressions, people not pronouncing my name, etc. But most of the time, brands come to me because they want my creative voice.
I don’t have a website, I don’t use hashtags, I don’t promote myself — I let the work speak. My work has been my manager, and I’m grateful.
I’ve had moments: early in my career a white male photo assistant took my camera and started shooting — he would never do that if I were a white man. So yes, things like that. But overall I feel protected and aligned with my purpose, and doors open.
J: Do you feel pressure to maintain your aesthetic — since clients come for your look?
T: I love that question. My work has a consistent thread from the beginning until now. I’m a Latina woman deeply connected to culture and community — that never changes, even as I evolve.
But now I want to take it up 10 notches: bigger production sets, better lighting, more complicated imagery — elevating the work. That’s why I’m shifting toward cinema and video: movement, directing movement, building light. I’m always challenging myself so I don’t get bored or stagnant.
“The greatest tool a photographer has is genuine conversation.”
J: Your connection with subjects is rare. Are there times you don’t feel the connection? How do you deal with that?
T: Of course. Sometimes I have time in pre-production to build a friendship. Sometimes I don’t — big set, pressure, talent uncomfortable, and I feel it too.
The greatest tool a photographer has is genuine conversation. It’s simple, but people forget. You can have all the lights and the best camera, but if you can’t make someone feel safe, the photos will reflect that.
When it’s hard, I reduce the noise: fewer people around, I don’t want the model dealing with a hundred eyes. I bring it back to human level: “How are you feeling? What do you want to explore?”
I don’t want to keep shooting while anyone feels uncomfortable. If I’m uncomfortable, they are too. Conversation creates the shift. It never fails. There’s always a moment they relax: “Okay, she’s cool. I’m safe.” I could never be cold about it — it’s not who I am.
It’s a privilege to take someone’s photograph. I never want to lose that respect.
Consent, authorship, and images that travel
J: Do you feel the weight of responsibility — knowing images travel, end up in campaigns, print, internet?
T: At the beginning of my career, I felt that weight deeply. I’d come home and be on the ground — depleted, in a beautiful way. I didn’t know how to manage my energy. Over time I learned to protect it more.
And even after the photo is taken, I don’t feel the photo is entirely mine. If it’s going in a magazine, a show, or being relicensed, I have that conversation with the model. I want them to consent to where their image lives. Many have marginalized identities. Exploitation is easy, and I never want that on my heart.
Money, compensation, and refusing extraction
J: When money and exposure come in — does that change the dynamic for you or the people you photograph?
T: A principle I live with is: people — especially marginalized folks — must be compensated fairly.
Money is better now, and I negotiate my own budgets. I don’t have a manager. I’ve met with rep agencies, but it never felt right. Why give 30% when I built this?
More budget means more pay for talent. Like with Polaroid: I thought, “This is my cut — but what is the model getting?” I negotiated for more money, not for me — for them. It’s not talked about enough.
I wouldn’t be who I am without the people who sat for me. The photo doesn’t exist without them. They are the hero. Historically there’s been a power dynamic — part of my work is bridging that gap: fair pay, consent, respect.
I see photographers — especially white men — go into Guatemala or El Salvador, take photos, make money, publish, and then ya estuvo — wash their hands. What about those people? That’s ugly. Modern-day colonization. We’re not doing that.
And I’ll add: even as a Latina, I can still exploit my own community. I have to be mindful of privilege and access.
Immigration, urgency, and community action
J: With everything happening now — immigration, politics — how do you feel? Does it shape what you feel called to do?
T: I feel awful. It rips my heart up. I feel helpless, but I also have privilege and access, so I can’t not use my voice — whether to educate, bring awareness, or make people feel loved in a time of hate.
A few months ago I curated an art show fundraiser. I emailed clients to help fund it — Nike donated, Don Julio donated. We had 30+ Latino artists, print sale, food, DJs.
We raised $10,000 for an immigration law center that helps undocumented folks with legal assistance, and $5,000 for the National Day Laborer Network for resources and security. The corporations helped with space and production, but the actual money came from community — from people buying art.
Also, my neighbor sells flowers as a street vendor. I hadn’t seen her for weeks — vendors are hiding. So at the art show we set up a flower booth and sold out her flowers.
Now I’m trying to create more meaningful art — to bring light into darkness. It doesn’t feel like pressure — it feels like calling and purpose.
“My mom grounds me.”
J: How do you stay connected to your roots as opportunities grow — what grounds you beyond photography?
T: My mom. Calling her grounds me. She’s a reflection of the women in our community — remedies, cooking, words — love and traditional values. She brings me back to earth.
As my career grows, I bring her with me: Germany, Barcelona, Italy. None of it matters if I can’t share it with her and my community.
And in everyday life, community is a muscle — you exercise it. I chose where I live intentionally. I want to see the taco people across the street, the ladies selling flowers — that’s who I buy from. No matter my bank account, my heart is here.
I’m inspired by the man at the bus stop and his hat, the lady fixing her hair at the carnicería. These things fill my heart with joy.
What makes a good photograph?
J: In your eyes, what makes a good photograph beyond technique?
T: I think we all have an artistic heartbeat — DNA. What captivates me is when I can feel the artist being fully themselves. A strong storytelling, a strong individuality.
That takes work — introspection, learning what you want to say. It’s easy to copy someone else; it’s hard to dig deep.
What’s next: books, Magnum, street vendors
J: Are you working on something new?
T: Yes. A photo book called “Donde Eres” — highlighting different immigrant stories. Growing up my mom would always ask people: “Where are you from?” And it’s never “I’m from Canada,” it’s “I’m from El Salvador.” That’s the book.
I’m also working with Magnum Photos on a project called “Driveway Dreams” — Latino family parties in the driveway. It was supposed to be done quickly, but I want to extend it. Winter lighting was harsh, parties at night. I want real parties, not staged. I want spring/summer, patience. The images in my mind — the tío with the beer, the abuelita, everything.
And I’m starting a personal project on street vendors, with a bit of fashion — elevated but not Prada. Still early, but I’ve started casting.
I’m also doing commercial work, Nike, and I’m speaking next month at the University of Notre Dame and at San Francisco University — workshops, artist talks, Q&A. It’s weird because I feel young and still learning and I didn’t go to college like that. But it’s happening.
Inspiration, observation, and “being human”
J: What’s inspiring you lately — music, films, anything?
T: Honestly everything and sometimes nothing — sometimes I get depressed and nothing inspires me. But creativity is a muscle.
There’s a little mercadito in Boyle Heights. I’ve been going and just watching people be human — watching women preparing their booths, colors, movement. I sit there with a notepad and write down movement. I’m studying human movement to incorporate into directing. I’ve never told anyone that — sounds weird, but that’s where my mind is.
J: That’s not weird — that’s the best. Sitting, observing, imagining where people come from and where they’re going.
T: I create whole stories in my head.
Advice for photographers starting out
J: Last question: what advice would you give someone starting photography?
T: Don’t feel bad because you don’t have the latest camera. Go to the thrift store, get a cheap camera, and start shooting.
Focus on what your heart is trying to say — your artistic voice — before technique. Technique comes later. Watch YouTube if you need.
People get scared and stuck in self-doubt because they don’t know the camera — I didn’t know either. Start with your voice.
Closing
J: Thank you.
T: Thank you, Jose. Also, Jose is my dad’s name. When I got your email I was like, I have to say yes — my dad would be like, “How are you going to say no to Jose?”
J: Thank you. It’s inspiring to see a Latina grow into this space. People can look at your work and feel hope — that they can do it too. Congrats on the Wall Street portrait with Jodie Foster.
T: Thank you — she was sweet. I had 15 minutes. I don’t usually photograph celebrities but it was lovely. I’m open to doing more.
J: I want to see more high-end magazines with a Latino name in the credits.
T: Thank you so much. Many blessings to you. Have a lovely rest of your day.
J: You too. Feliz tarde.
