I dream in another language

What pieces or projects have you been working on lately?
I believe that, historically (if you can call it that), my photography has always revolved around documenting. I'm interested in dignifying, as much as possible, the stories I encounter; it doesn't matter where I am or where I go. For me, the camera is a way to connect with people and find beauty in the everyday.

I recently had the opportunity to collaborate with México Análogo, Rollei, Analog Store, and, of course, ERRR Magazine on their 43rd issue, “Come Together.” In the last few weeks, I participated alongside nine other photographers from different parts of Mexico in a project with Rollei, in which each of us tested a different film. It was an intense exercise: we only had one week to shoot and deliver the results. Beyond the technical challenge, I liked the idea of ​​how different perspectives can emerge from the same starting point, and how each one retains its own unique voice. During the summer, I also worked as the lead photographer for Pali Adventures in California. It was an experience that pushed me to my limits: photographing every day, from dawn till dusk, always striving to improve. It was a huge challenge, but also an invaluable lesson in discipline, rhythm, and observation.

In parallel, I'm gradually transitioning into directing short documentaries and cinematography in general. I come from the school of analog photography, and to this day, that's where I feel most at home, most like a fish in water. However, making the leap to video and learning to tell stories with more than one frame has been a steep learning curve. Even so, I'm thrilled to be working on my first short film, which I've written and directed myself.

What did you learn (or unlearn) while working on them?
When I received Rollei's film reel, the first thing I thought was, "What story do I want to tell?" And, to be honest, at first I didn't know. My mind went blank, trying to force an idea that just wouldn't come. Over time I understood that stories aren't something you search for; they appear when you least expect them, or sometimes they find you.

I spent several days thinking about where to go, but I've never liked going out with the intention of "getting a photo." I prefer to let the day surprise me. My thing has always been walking, observing, and waiting. There's something profoundly honest about looking without expectation, about trusting that the story will reveal itself. While I admire carefully planned composition, I realized that what truly moves me is the spontaneous moment, the one that doesn't announce itself. It was a process of learning and unlearning at the same time, inventing reasons to keep walking, carefully crafting each shot, and above all, telling the stories of the street with dignity.

Meanwhile, while working on my first short film, I've discovered something similar, albeit from a different perspective. I always thought filmmaking only taught technique, but now I understand that it's also a form of tenderness. Thanks to several filmmakers I deeply admire, who have patiently taught me everything from how to construct a storyboard to how to think of a story beyond oneself, I've come to understand that creating isn't just about making something that moves me, but about making it touch the viewer as well.

In the end, I think that's what it's all about: looking with love, listening to what life has to say, and letting the stories, when they arrive, stay with you for as long as they need before moving on.

What words, ideas or emotions were going through your head?
I always keep in mind a phrase that I save in my phone's notes, as a reminder: "Without ever falling into miserabilism or exoticism."

Every time I go out to take photographs, whether on the street, in a remote community, or even in another country, I think about that. I believe that one of the most important skills an artist can have is empathy, or that sensitivity, the ability to feel, even just a little, the pain or joy of the people they portray.

I pay close attention to hands, the way people walk, their gaze. Even without knowing someone, there are gestures that reveal the essence of their story. It's as if, for a fleeting moment, I can glimpse their heart, and there, in that moment of silent connection, I decide if I have permission to tell their story through one of my cameras.

I would hate to become part of that group that Sombra talks about in the movie “Güeros” (2014):

“They grab some damn beggars, film in black and white, and say they’re making art cinema.”

That phrase stuck with me. It's easy to exploit someone's vulnerability and turn it into something aesthetically pleasing. That's why, every time I take a photo, I repeat the same thing to myself: that my work should never come at the expense of another person's dignity. That my images should accompany, not exploit; that they should look straight ahead, not from above.

Were there any conversations, movies, music, or books that made their way into that work?
Lately, I've been spending a lot of time with "Minamata," the film that tells the story of W. Eugene Smith, a master of documentary filmmaking who fought to give voice to silenced communities through photography. His way of looking at suffering with respect reminded me why I do what I do. I was also deeply moved by Anthony Bourdain's "Kitchen Confidential," the film by that adventurer who decided to explore the world through cooking, not as an end in itself, but as a bridge to connect with people; his way of narrating life with hunger, both literally and metaphorically, inspires me profoundly.

Another recent inspiration has been the film “Carnalismo” (2024), directed by my great friend José Luis Cano, and the cinema of Neuderts, which never ceases to amaze me. From Hermann Neudert, I've learned a great deal about the delicacy of the creative process: how to build a story from intention, not from haste. Thanks to him, I understood that telling a story truthfully doesn't always mean making it perfect, but rather doing it with soul.

What's been the most difficult thing you've faced recently in your creative process?
The hardest thing lately has been believing in myself. Truly believing that I can do what I do, especially now that more people are seeing my work and each project demands that I rise to the occasion. Sometimes I overthink my creative process, and when that happens, everything gets stuck. I find it hard to let go of control and simply let things flow. I've had to remind myself why I started, what drives me. I've always said that I'll do this as long as I'm passionate about it, and that idea keeps me on track whenever I doubt myself. Little by little, I've learned to leave behind the projects where I felt like just a tool, to focus on those that allow me to create freely, where I can grow alongside the people I collaborate with.

In the end, the hardest part hasn't been the work itself, but convincing myself that I'm capable, that I deserve to be here, and that everything I've built comes from an honest place. Believing in yourself, sometimes, is the greatest creative act of all.

What is your favorite restaurant and what do you recommend we order?
I'm usually a bit caught off guard, because I'm almost always on the lookout for new places to try, but not long ago I discovered a Japanese restaurant called Mensho in San Francisco. I tried the best ramen I've ever had, the Signature Toripaitan Ramen. It's a completely different and incredibly flavorful experience. I know it's a chain, so you can find it in several locations, but even so, if you have the chance, I highly recommend it.

If your life were a movie this month, what would it be called and who would write the soundtrack?
I think I would steal the title of “I Dream in Another Language”, and the soundtrack would be done by Dan Levy, from the band The Dø, who also composed the music for “J’ai perdu mon corps”, something here kind of melodramatic and delicate.

Recommend one or more artists you follow who inspire you, and tell us what you like most about their work or their way of working.
So many artists come to mind, but lately I've been thinking a lot about the cinema of northern Mexico: Hermann Neudert, well, all the Neudert brothers in general, José Luis Cano, and that whole new generation of filmmakers from Durango. I'm also inspired by the entire Mexican folk and indie scene, Haruki Murakami, Sebastião Salgado, and the list goes on. In general, my biggest role models are relatively close to home. That said, I greatly admire and don't underestimate the big names in film and culture: Guillermo del Toro, Alfonso Cuarón, Alfonso Ruiz Palacios, Ari Aster, among others. Beyond the greats, however, it's the words, the passion, and the vision of those around me that inspire me every day.