“In a sense, that’s my mission: to hold onto what’s transient, even as it fades, leaving traces behind.”
At an early age, Vĩ Sơn Trinh learned of his parents’ journey as refugees escaping Communist-ruled Vietnam. They spent seven days and nights at sea, eventually arriving in Galang, Indonesia, where his mom promptly gave birth to Vĩ Sơn. While his parents’ story illuminated his own journey to find his identity as a second-generation immigrant, Vĩ Sơn realized his experience was one among many and became inspired to use visual storytelling to give voice to other similar narratives of immigrant families.
Vĩ Sơn’s different projects, such as Silk Rise, Chinatown, and The Stories We Carry, aim to preserve everyday moments that explore cultural identity among second and third-generation immigrants. His photography immediately draws you into small, nuanced moments that carry a weightless glow of compassion and gratitude. The soft, faded, dream-like tone of his images feels like long-forgotten memories that unexpectedly visit you, almost like déjà vu. His images are comforting in their reassurance, giving order to the disorder that arises from intergenerational trauma.
As a visual journalist, photographer, and full-time cardiac nurse, Vĩ Sơn Trịnh uses his photography and filmmaking to uncover stories of resilience, the perseverance of familial bonds, and identity among refugees and immigrants.
Your images communicate a quiet, emotional depth, even out of context. Are there other elements in your life that influence your work? My influences are like waves—each one carrying fragments of memory, connecting the past to the present in ways that feel both vivid and elusive. Some inspirations are simple moments, like the hum of tires on the road when I drive alone. It reminds me of family road trips, my dad guiding us to visit relatives in Los Angeles, those long hours becoming my first experience of quiet spaces, where my thoughts could wander freely. There’s a kind of longing to capture those fleeting moments, to preserve the simplicity of what once was. This is why I’m drawn to photographers like Rinko Kawauchi; her work feels like visual haikus that honor small, often overlooked details. Her images remind me to pause, to see the truth in the subtleties, to find beauty in what others might overlook.
Do other art forms inspire you as well? Music also plays a crucial role in my creative process, adapting with my environment and mood. When I’m out on the streets, blending into the rhythm of city life, I listen to Shigeto. The intensity of his beats fuels my energy, pushing me to navigate crowds, cars, and alleyways with purpose. In contrast, when I’m seeking something introspective, I turn to the calming compositions of Olafur Arnalds or Ryuichi Sakamoto. Their music has a way of evoking nostalgia, allowing me to connect with fragments of memory that need space to breathe and take form.
Grief, too, influences my work. Creating has become a way to process loss and transform pain into something tangible. It’s an attempt to find beauty in absence, to honor what’s slipping away by capturing it.
In a sense, that’s my mission: to hold onto what’s transient, even as it fades, leaving traces behind.
There is a quiet tenderness to your photos with an emphasis on small moments, often up close. When you shoot, do you have a vision of what you want already in mind or are you simply paying attention to those moments as they unfold naturally? When I first began, there was no map, no destination—just the pull to capture everything under the sun, as if each moment could somehow fill an emptiness I hadn’t yet named. I was chasing a high, really, capturing whatever caught my eye, drawn to the sheer wonder of it. The camera became a net for everything fleeting, everything that seemed to slip away as soon as I looked at it. These days, when I work on a project, I carry that same innocence, that same sense of wonder, but there’s a steadiness to it now, a direction. I still find myself searching for that pure feeling, that unfiltered connection. I might start with a goal, an idea of where I’m headed, but once I’m in it, once the subject and I begin to share a kind of quiet understanding, that’s when things start to bloom on their own. The moments become softer, truer. It’s as if the image decides to reveal itself, layered and deep, only once we’ve learned to be still enough to listen.
I recently came across a wonderful explanation of how poetry, in particular, can be this improbable portal, or backdoor, into the cosmos by sneaking ideas into our subconscious, ultimately changing the way we perceive the external world. I realized how photography, likewise, can do the same thing…a visual poem, if you will. With that said, how did The Stories We Carry project change your perspective and the way you relate to the world? That’s such a beautiful way to put it, Taran—“poetry as a portal,” a doorway into other lives and experiences, ways of seeing we might never have considered. The Stories We Carry project felt like stepping into that portal, and through it, I was able to witness the inner worlds of first- and second-generation immigrant families, each one carrying their own histories and memories, held in everyday objects and stories. While I’m part of this community through my own family’s journey, the project gave me something rare: a deeper, more intimate sense of what it means to walk in someone else’s shoes, to feel their joys, their struggles, their resilience. Photography, for me, became a way to bridge that space, to capture glimpses of lives that are both familiar and vastly different. Each person I photographed gave me a doorway into their reality—a chance to see not just the visible details but the weight of their histories, the layers of their identities. The project reshaped my own understanding of belonging and displacement; it reminded me how nuanced these experiences are, even within a community I thought I knew well. It’s one thing to know that each immigrant story is unique, but it’s another to witness it, to be invited into those spaces, and to come away changed, with a broader compassion and a new way of seeing the lives around me.
Your journey to become a nurse, and the job itself, seems to play a big part in your identity and, likewise, your approach to your projects. Would you say there are any relative parallels to your visual journalist work and your day-to-day profession? Nursing and visual journalism share a surprising intimacy—both are grounded in careful observation, empathy, and the power of listening. My work as a nurse has shaped me into a more attentive photographer, just as my background in photojournalism has helped me to see my patients in greater depth. Nursing calls for a sensitivity to detail, a watchfulness that allows me to notice the smallest changes in a patient’s health or demeanor, knowing that these subtle shifts can mean everything. It’s a skill rooted in close observation, much like photography, where one frame can hold a world of unspoken truths.
In both fields, there’s an art to asking the right questions. As a nurse, I ask patients about their symptoms, their medications, their financial and emotional well-being, their homes and support systems—each answer adding another layer to their story, much like a journalist drawing out a narrative. It’s not just about gathering information; it’s about understanding how each piece of their life impacts their health, their journey. And when I’m photographing, that same curiosity shapes how I approach people. I’m attuned to the layers beneath their expressions, their gestures, the environment they inhabit.
Perhaps the deepest similarity is the sense of compassion each role demands. Nursing has taught me to look beyond the immediate—to see my patients not as cases, but as individuals with stories, histories, and vulnerabilities. That awareness has changed how I approach photography, too, infusing my images with a tenderness and empathy that only comes from bearing witness to both the fragility and resilience of others. In both nursing and photography, I’m reminded that what I capture or care for is not just a single moment or person, but a piece of a much larger, intricate story.
Do you have any projects on the horizon or ideas ruminating? Some days, the weight of picking up the camera feels heavier than I remember, like the lens has grown distant, more elusive. The everyday currents of work, the quiet exhaustion of life—it all leaves me feeling like creating is both a refuge and a labor. But I often find myself drifting into a daydream, imagining a project I haven’t yet begun: an archive of my father’s old Hi-8 footage and old photos from his visits to Vietnam in the ’90s, woven with scenes of our family’s early days here in the States. I want to tell our story, to trace our family’s path, the way memory lingers in old tapes, how it shapes us in ways we’re still learning to name.
Recently, I’ve felt a pull from others in my generation, other creatives using art to reach into their own histories, to confront the weight of intergenerational trauma and shape it into something tangible, something that heals. There’s a kind of solace in that, a shared language. I hope to make space for this work, to find my own way of piecing together fragments of that story, connecting with others who carry a similar thread of resilience and memory. Maybe, in time, these fragments will take form—a new project, a way to honor what’s been both lost and found.
In fourth grade, Rosanna Alvarez once laughed from under her desk as an earthquake shook her classroom and the rest of Eastside San Jose. Her classmates thought she was demented. She didn’t know how to explain that she was nervous and had not actually enjoyed the temblor.
These days, Rosanna expresses herself through all the languages a multifaceted interdisciplinary artist works with. As a painter, dancer, jeweler, and poet, among other things, she has plenty of outlets. But a good giggle opens her pressure valve. “I laugh all the time,” she says, punctuating it with a small but generous chuckle.
Levity helps balance the consulting work Rosanna provides, which often includes navigating sensitive matters for governmental agencies like Santa Clara County Social Services and Executive Offices. She provides support to the people who do the groundwork so that communities can thrive.
In her own life, Rosanna’s mother greatly supported her dreams. It was her mother who helped Rosanna sew the artist’s first set of regalia. “She didn’t know what the hell I was asking her to do, but she was like, ‘Okay. Sure. We’re gonna do this,’ ” Rosanna explains.
Inside iJava cafe, underneath Highway 87 on the edge of Downtown San Jose, Rosanna looks at her phone, obsessing over an Aztec regalia she wants to buy online. She dances with and is a founding member of the Aztec dance group Calpulli Tonalehqueh.
Rosanna credits her mother’s creativity for drawing her to community and adds that her mother would never claim to be artistic. “But then you look at the way she ran her household,” Rosanna adds. From Halloween costumes for Rosanna and her siblings, to countless party favors for baptisms and quinceañeras, her mother was there.
“My mom taught us the art of the glue gun—[she had] so many glue sticks! That is her love language—helping other people,” Rosanna says. “Folks appreciated the love she put into everything she made,” she adds.
To meet Rosanna is to be met with her big hoop earrings and an ensemble of dark and vivid colors that almost run counter to her stoic nature. She describes herself as a bit of a peacock but exhibits a locked-on-target focus—one that remains engaged as she tells a story while a dozen police cars scream past the cafe. Rosanna finishes her thought, then calmly peers out the window, succumbing to curiosity.
Originally, Rosanna wanted to become a lawyer. After studying political science at Santa Clara University and in grad school, her focus shifted to community and art as she worked in youth development, hopped around non-profit organizations, lectured on Chicano and Chicana studies at San Jos é State University, and co-founded Eastside Magazine
While pregnant with her second daughter, Rosanna’s family lost their house in San Jose during the 2008 market collapse, forcing them to move to Gilroy. Her daughter was born with congenital birth defects, so Rosanna and her husband began advocating for the best medical care they could get. Their daughter is now a teenager and is doing well.
Rosanna’s firstborn recently told Rosanna that she decided not to join MEChA, a high school club that focuses on empowering Latinx students, because other club members made her feel not as Mexican. “I thought I fought that battle!” Rosanna says, and adds, “How can we be less ugly with each other?” She offers her daughters guidance through their own art and teaches them about their deep cultural connections.
Whether she is speaking in front of students, government workers, or employees at Apple, Rosanna brings her authenticity. “I think I show up in a way that encourages people to remember that it’s okay to put aside what might feel like a costume for some of us and to just connect.”
Online she sells T-shirts, one of which reads, “Hocicona eres mas chingona.” This translates to “You’re more badass for being outspoken,” Rosanna explains. Growing up, hocicona meant “Don’t be so outspoken. Don’t have that audacity.” She shares that in reality, “It’s the container for the audacity of certain behaviors women in particular aren’t supposed to have, [like] being outspoken.” She counters that idea by stating, “I am raising hociconas.” Her daughters wear the shirt.
Rosanna adds a final meditation on the word. “It’s a reminder that if I wanted to show up in bold red lipstick and my big hoops and speak in my eastside twang, that I’m still the same person with the same insights as if I chose to show up in a blazer and the neutral lipstick and the styled hair.” When asked what her love language is, Rosanna responds with “gangster rap,” an example of her sense of humor, which she uses to balance the heavier parts of the world.
As an advocate for authenticity, Rosanna seems to be less of a peacock and more like a raven in a purple sweater, armed with a glue gun and voice that will be heard.
“I discovered that my art form was not creating art but bringing people to art and telling those stories [and] being a conduit for artistic expressions and the community that needs to engage with them.”
A wood-cut sign hangs from the eaves of a Spanish-style balcony on Palo Alto’s Ramona Street architectural district. The sign reads “Pamela Walsh Gallery” in gold lettering. Inside, contemporary works of art hang neatly on the white walls of the historic building designed by Stanford architect Birge Clark in 1929. The gallery is named after owner, curator, and gallerist Pamela Walsh. More than simply managing a gallery, Walsh carefully orchestrates exhibitions, weaving together visual narratives that connect artists to space and viewers to artwork.
Curating exhibitions requires close collaboration with artists, pushing them to dig deeper into their craft, shaping themes, or relying on creative instinct to curate engaging experiences. Walsh explains, “That’s the part that I think is sometimes misunderstood. Real gallerists are artists. I attended art school and studied fine art in art history. I discovered that my art form was not creating art but bringing people to art and telling those stories [and] being a conduit for artistic expressions and the community that needs to engage with them.”
Walsh’s journey to owning her gallery has been a puzzle of self-discovery, business, and inspiration. Originally from Tennessee, she developed an interest in painting during high school, eventually pursuing a degree in art at university. After college, Walsh moved to California, hoping to break into the art gallery business. She was determined to get her foot in the door as a woman in a male-dominated industry. When she did—essentially paying to work on a draw against commission—she took a gallery job at Franklin Bowles Gallery in San Francisco. She worked her way up the ranks, creating a career over two decades. “I’m deeply grateful for that because [Franklin Bowles] really believed in me and taught me so much about the business…and when I was ready to go, he had three galleries in San Francisco and one in New York. It was a big company with many employees. I ran three locations and had 25 salespeople working under me. [That experience] has informed me about what my path [would] be as a gallerist,” she says.
Before opening Pamela Walsh Gallery in 2019, Walsh explored running her own art advisory business to free herself from the overhead of operating a brick-and-mortar location. Before long, she realized the importance of space. “Having worked in another gallery space for many years…I was coming out of that experience, wondering at the time [in] 2017, ‘Do you really need space? Is space important?’ ” She continues, “What I found is that space is precious. What space allows you is not only what artists really, deeply desire, which is a place to exhibit art and put together meaningful exhibitions that tell stories that you can’t tell otherwise, but it also allows you to build relationships with your community.”
Opening in November 2019, Pamela Walsh Gallery aimed to forge a new path, transforming the Palo Alto art scene by creating a destination for art buyers and enthusiasts on the peninsula in a region outside of San Francisco’s bustling art community. Sensing the absence of many thriving art galleries in the area, Walsh envisioned fostering an ecosystem of contemporary art in the heart of Palo Alto. Originally planning to open the gallery with partner and renowned gallerist Michael Schwartz, Walsh came as close as signing term sheets before Schwartz became ill, forcing him to pull out of the arrangement. Walsh recalls, “It was a tough moment. We had come so far, and I had spent so much energy and money figuring out how this business would work. And I had to think it through. Could I do it alone? And I just decided to go for it.”
Pamela rounds out that conversation by honoring Michael, who passed away in 2020. “He was a lovely, wonderful man. He was really somebody who believed in me in a way that was so powerful that it compelled me to do something that I was supposed to do. And I hope to return those gifts to someone in the future. Sometimes, you meet just a couple of people along your path who are the people who change your course.”
Even though the gallery opened just months before COVID-19 shutdowns, the pandemic underscored the importance of physical spaces for art. Walsh recognized that without space, she had nothing to offer potential art buyers, and coming out of the pandemic, she witnessed firsthand how people longed for in person art experiences. Galleries, museums, and art were pivotal in providing solace and inspiration during trying times. Walsh’s commitment to fostering art and community was reaffirmed.
In the ever-evolving landscape of contemporary art, Walsh remains a steadfast advocate for artists, their work, and women in the art business. As a mid-sized gallery, she is a crucial element of the arts ecosystem that provides a platform for emerging talents, curates impactful exhibitions, and serves as a link between art and community.
