Jorge: It’s September 19th already. How are you doing, Robert?
Robert: Living the dream, as they say.
Jorge: I know you recently got back from Oklahoma. You’d talked about visiting your family’s old home place. How are you feeling about it now?
Robert: I’m in a good place, I think. I always wish I could’ve done more—I suppose that’s the artist’s curse. But I reached a kind of peak where I can see new valleys, new landscapes opening up from the work I’ve done this summer. That’s exciting. I’m starting to understand the different directions this project could grow in. Spending time in Oklahoma, at the homestead of my great-grandparents, where my grandmother lived as a young woman, was intense. I’ve heard about that place all my life. My mother and cousins, when they were kids, lived there with my great-grandparents while their parents worked in the city. It was their whole world—just a small rural area, maybe a square mile, all farmland and unpaved roads. I visited once or twice before, but it had been years. Going back now as an adult, with the project in mind, was emotional.
Ilia: What made it feel so emotional this time?
Robert: This place is foundational to my family’s history. Hearing stories about it is one thing—visiting is another. The house my great-grandmother lived in is still standing but overgrown now. I have old photos of my sister and me as kids, standing in front of it, when you could still see right through the yard. Now the land is reclaiming the structure.
My mom and her cousins got overwhelmed just being there. They remembered the well water that everyone shared, how they’d say it was the nastiest water, but they all drank it. They remembered how rural life meant chickens, cows, hogs, outhouses—no indoor plumbing. They told stories of being warned about snakes or spiders in the outhouse. It’s a whole way of life I never knew directly. It’s so different from my upbringing.
This tiny community—maybe 20 families, 40 or 50 people total—many of them are now all in the same cemetery. This was a fully formed world, an all-Black community, safe and loving. To stand where they stood, to know that my ancestors lived full lives here, that’s special. There’s a lot of heaviness and a lot of joy mixed in together.
Jorge: You’ve mentioned the idea of these small Black communities as a kind of mini-utopia. Does working with archives and photographs help you understand this past differently?
Robert: Absolutely. Photographs become essential artifacts. There’s nothing like seeing the barn where they kept animals, or the storm shelter that doubled as a cellar. It’s one thing to hear a story; it’s another to see an old photo of the barn that stored the animals, the well everyone shared, or the cellar where everyone huddled during tornado warnings. These images hold layers of meaning. They are proof that this world existed, a world that shaped my family.
I’ve inherited this role of archivist by default. The photos, the negatives, the prints have landed with me. And I’m a photographer myself, so I appreciate the intention, the care it takes to make and preserve these images. My ancestors took photos even when it was expensive, difficult, and time-consuming. They recorded their daily lives, their pride, their celebrations. I stand on their shoulders.
Seeing their photographs—Kodachrome, Ektachrome slides, beautiful prints—and comparing them to the work I do now makes me realize I’m continuing their legacy. I’m scanning old photos, restoring them, archiving them properly so future generations can know this history. These images tell stories not just of Black American life, but of my family’s particular journey. At a time when the histories of certain communities are being erased, these photographs are a safeguard, a record of who we are and where we come from.
Ilia: It sounds like this is about memory and continuity. There’s so much care involved. How does photography become a tool for preserving these threads?
Robert: Photography is memory. It’s a survival tactic. Without these images, a lot of stories would vanish. My grandmother’s prints, my mom’s photo albums, even my own negatives—all this shows how we’ve documented our existence. I keep thinking about the effort it took: buying film, loading the camera, finding the right moment, developing, printing. Every photograph represents time, skill, and money invested. It’s precious.
During the pandemic, I had the chance to deeply organize my own archive. That was like a self-imposed residency. I organized negatives from my earliest rolls in college to now. It’s amazing to see my own growth as a photographer, to appreciate what it takes to make even one good image.
My family’s photographs connect me to people who came before. I see my ancestors before they had kids, when they were just young folks enjoying life. It humanizes them and adds depth to my understanding of my lineage. And yes, it takes care and skill—like tending a bonsai tree. You care for it, shape it, and pass it on. Someone cared for these images and passed them down, and now it’s my turn.
Jorge: It’s interesting. Photography used to be more communal, right? People would gather and watch slideshows together. Now it’s often on social media, which feels more fragmented. Do you think something is lost when we don’t view images together?
Robert: I do. Back in the day, you’d set up a projector after a family trip and show slides to everyone gathered in the living room. Or you’d flip through albums—real, tangible albums. It was a social ritual, sharing and talking about these moments. That’s something I try to replicate sometimes. For instance, when I was a Teaching Assistant, I’d bring in prints and albums for students to handle. It’s different from swiping on a phone. You see their reactions, hear their questions.
I remember showing my students photos I took when I was their age. It blew their minds. They got to see my world, my friends, our stupid antics, what college life looked like for me. It created a conversation. Even now, people approach me saying, “I scanned my grandmother’s photos” or “I took pictures at a family gathering because I was inspired by your talk.” That’s the communal aspect, the social practice of photography—passing on the knowledge so others can archive their own histories.
Ilia: You’re describing photography as something more than just images. It’s a practice, a tradition, and a set of skills that get handed down. And these archives you inherited—they weren’t made for museums. They were just family documents. Does that change how you see them as an artist?
Robert: Yes, it does. These archives weren’t made with the art world in mind; they were made out of love, necessity, pride, and sometimes just casual documentation. Now, as an artist, I can read them in multiple ways. On one hand, they’re personal, nostalgic. On the other, they form a historical record of a Black community’s life in America, a narrative often ignored or erased. In that sense, they have political weight. They testify that we existed and thrived.
Working through these archives, I also pay attention to aesthetics—composition, lighting, style. It’s cool to realize that even “amateur” photographers were thinking about how to frame a shot. The images show cultural and fashion trends, changing hairstyles, and social dynamics. For me, it’s a goldmine. I’m not just preserving the images; I’m activating them, bringing them to conversations about history, memory, and identity.
Jorge: You’ve shared your work with students and fellow artists. Have you noticed differences in how various audiences respond?
Robert: Definitely. Students, for instance, relate to the personal aspect. They see me as this older figure who’s showing them that taking pictures matters. I encourage them: “Go photograph your grandmother now, before the stories disappear.” That sparks something—suddenly, they realize photography isn’t just for professionals or Instagram influencers. It’s a family practice, a human practice.
More seasoned photographers appreciate the technical aspects and the dedication it took to preserve these materials. Historians and archivists get excited about the cultural context. People who have no direct connection to Black rural communities might say, “Wow, I never knew a community like that existed. It changes how I understand American history.” Everyone takes something different from it.
Ilia: It sounds like your role has expanded. You’re not just making photos; you’re transmitting values, skills, and historical awareness. Is that something you’ve embraced consciously?
Robert: It evolved naturally, but I’m conscious of it now. When I was younger, I just liked taking pictures. Over time, as I got access to family archives and as I refined my own practice, I realized the responsibility and privilege of being a keeper of these stories.
When I gave lectures or did classroom sessions, I’d share not just my glossy professional work but the older, raw material from my college years. This showed students a progression. It’s not about perfection; it’s about developing a practice and a perspective.
I remember an assignment in a foundations class where students had to create a photo story. I brought my old albums. They got to see how I documented my life at their age. This broke down barriers. Suddenly, they understood they could do this too. They could experiment, find their own styles, tell their own stories.
Jorge: It’s inspiring how you frame photography as generational continuity. You mentioned bonsai trees earlier. Could you say more about that metaphor?
Robert: Sure. I got into gardening during the pandemic. With bonsai, you inherit a tree someone else nurtured for decades, maybe generations. Your job is to maintain it, maybe add your own shaping, and pass it on to the next caretaker. Photography can work similarly. You inherit archives, images, family stories—like a living thing that needs care. You tend it, add to it, reinterpret it, and ensure it survives beyond you.
In both cases—bonsai or archives—you’re acknowledging that you’re part of a chain. What you do matters, but it’s not the whole story. You’re a steward. That perspective takes some ego out of it. It’s about contributing to something larger, ensuring these narratives persist.
Ilia: Given the fragility of historical memory, especially of marginalized communities, this stewardship feels urgent. Are you thinking about the long-term future of your family’s archives?
Robert: Absolutely. I’m making sure these photos are digitized, backed up multiple times, labeled, and contextualized. One day, I might donate parts of it to an archive or a cultural institution. Or maybe I’ll make books so that everyone in the family can have a copy. It’s about ensuring that if someone wants to know their great-great-grandmother’s face or learn about life in that rural Black community, they can.
Jorge: Have you encountered moments where people realize the power of their own family archives, maybe because of something you’ve shown them?
Robert: Yes, many times. Students, after seeing my presentation, would say, “I went home and asked my parents for old photos. I scanned them, and we talked about stories I’d never heard before.” Or friends of mine say, “You know what, I never took photography seriously, but now I realize I should document the everyday moments.” It’s a chain reaction. That’s the magic of archives—they remind us that personal histories matter, that everyone’s story is worth preserving.
Ilia: You’ve also photographed significant public events—marches, protests, community gatherings. How does that tie into the family archives?
Robert: It’s all connected by the desire to show life as it really is, or as I’ve experienced it. I’ve shot everything from Obama’s inauguration to local marches like “A Day Without a Mexican,” which highlighted the labor that keeps Los Angeles running. These events become part of the collective archive of a community.
I learned tricks from my teachers: climbing a streetlight to get a bird’s-eye view of a crowd, using certain shutter speeds to capture ambient light and movement. These techniques give my images a sense of life and dynamism. In turn, I’ve passed these tips on to my students. When they practice them, they say, “It worked!” That’s the continuity again.
Jorge: It’s like you’re preserving not just family stories, but also the wider social fabric. Your perspective disrupts the conventional narratives about certain neighborhoods or communities.
Robert: That’s the goal. Often, Black and Brown communities are depicted through a narrow lens—just struggle or just violence. But in my images, you see regular life, joy, complexity, and solidarity. It’s a broader narrative. Photography lets me say, “This is also who we are.”
At university, some students recognized places in my photos or related to them differently than the usual media representations. They saw complexity. They might say, “I’ve never seen it that way before.” That’s powerful.
Ilia: You mentioned how exciting it was to show students your old college photos. How did that influence their approach to their assignments?
Robert: It liberated them. Many students think they need top-tier equipment or exotic locations to make meaningful work. When they saw my old albums—just pictures of friends, campus life, random outings—they realized that what matters is perspective and intention. It’s not about perfection; it’s about honesty and curiosity.
They produced varied, personal projects—portraits, photo essays about their own neighborhoods, experiments with framing and light. Some just documented their dorm life or the campus landscapes. It taught them to appreciate the everyday as a source of creativity. That’s huge. It’s a shift from “What should I shoot?” to “How can I see what’s right here with new eyes?”
Jorge: You were giving them permission to explore, to claim their own experiences as worthy subjects.
Robert: Exactly. Once they see the value in their own world, they realize that the ordinary is extraordinary if you approach it with care. They start to think, “What if I shoot from a low angle? What if I try a different lighting condition?” That experimentation leads to breakthroughs. Eventually, they create images that feel authentic and vibrant.
Ilia: It sounds like teaching and archiving are intertwined for you—both are ways of nurturing future possibilities.
Robert: I think so. By sharing my family’s photos and my own journey, I show that photography can be a lifelong practice, a medium for connecting generations. It’s not just a hobby or a job; it’s a way of seeing the world and ensuring that world is remembered. Teaching is just another form of passing on these skills and values.
Jorge: You mentioned some technical tips you gave to students, like “shutter drag” to capture ambient light at events. How do these little techniques fit into the bigger picture of storytelling?
Robert: Those techniques are tools that expand a student’s vocabulary. Once they learn a technique, they realize they have more control, more creative freedom. Instead of being stuck with a straightforward flash image, they can add a sense of atmosphere and depth. This changes the narrative potential of their photos.
When they go out, say, to photograph friends or a cultural event, they can evoke a mood that’s truer to how it felt to be there. Techniques like this help bridge the gap between a snapshot and a photograph that tells a story. Over time, these accumulate into a personal style, a unique way of presenting their world.
Ilia: It’s like giving them puzzle pieces so they can assemble their own vision of reality.
Robert: That’s a good way to put it. Each technique is a puzzle piece. The more pieces you have, the more nuanced your image-making can become. Soon you’re making choices intentionally, based on what story you want to tell, not just what’s in front of you.
Jorge: When you showed them the photos from Obama’s inauguration or community marches, what kind of reaction did you get?
Robert: They were surprised by how close and intimate the images felt. They asked, “How did you get that angle?” or “Weren’t you scared?” or “How did you handle the lighting?” It opened discussions about positioning yourself in the crowd, about safety, about reading the environment. They realized that making a meaningful photograph often means becoming part of the scene rather than standing apart from it.
It also encouraged them to be more engaged citizens. They saw that events they read about in the news could be documented by someone like them. They learned that their cameras and phones could be tools for witnessing, for shaping public memory.
Ilia: This conversation keeps coming back to witnessing and memory, whether family history or public events. Do you see these two realms intersecting in your work?
Robert: Yes, there’s a continuum. My family archives connect me to personal memory and community roots. My event photography places me in the present, documenting collective history in the making. Both are about preserving stories that might otherwise slip away. Both invite the viewer to consider what life was like, what people felt, and how communities formed and changed.
Jorge: Does this perspective influence how you look at your own future projects?
Robert: Definitely. As I move forward, I’m thinking about how to blend these realms—personal and public, past and present. Maybe I’ll create exhibitions or publications that pair old family photos with my contemporary work. I might interview family members, adding oral histories. The goal is to create a layered narrative that acknowledges continuity and change.
Ilia: Is there a particular moment or image that stands out for you as emblematic of everything we’ve been discussing?
Robert: There’s one photograph of my great-uncles when they were young, maybe taken in the 1930s. They must have gone somewhere special to get their picture taken since cameras weren’t common. It’s a formal portrait but casual enough to hint at their personalities. Seeing that image, I think about how they decided to record themselves at that time. They couldn’t have imagined me holding that photo 90 years later, analyzing it, treasuring it, and using it to understand our family’s trajectory.
Or the time I sat with my neighbor, a Vietnam veteran, and he showed me an album his father made during World War II. It documented everything—the ship, battles, ceremonies with local islanders. He was proud to share it with me because I valued it as a historical document and a family treasure. That exchange reminded me that these archives belong to all of us, that we all hold parts of each other’s stories.
Jorge: It’s all part of a larger narrative, isn’t it?
Robert: Yes, a tapestry of countless threads. My family’s photos are one thread, and my current work another. The students’ experiments, their newfound appreciation for their families’ pictures, add more threads. The veteran’s father’s album is yet another. Together, these threads weave a richer, more inclusive understanding of who we are and where we come from.
Ilia: It’s beautiful how this whole process nurtures a sense that life, even with its hardships, holds possibilities for goodness and connection. It’s as if these photographs cultivate a belief that life can be good, worth celebrating and remembering.
Robert: I think that’s at the core. These images say: “We existed, we laughed, we loved, we survived.” That’s powerful. It’s fragile, too, which is why it needs care. That care can come through archivists, artists, educators, and family members, all of us working to keep these memories alive.
Jorge: As we wrap up, is there something you want to emphasize about the legacy you’re stewarding?
Robert: I’d say: Don’t underestimate the value of your own family’s photos, or your own snapshots. Today’s casual picture might be tomorrow’s cherished artifact. And if you have the chance, learn to preserve them, learn to tell their story. Pass it on, like a living plant that someone else will tend after you.
Ilia: This conversation feels like we’ve honored that idea. Thank you for sharing these insights.
Robert: Thank you both. I appreciate the space to talk about it. At the end of the day, it’s about celebrating the richness of our experiences and ensuring they remain accessible and meaningful. That’s the true gift photography offers.
Jorge: Amen to that.