“If someone gives me ‘no’ as an answer, I find a different way.” -Josie Lepe
Whether it’s capturing the drama of a touchdown at a football game or the intimacy of a family at their dinner table, Josie Lepe is on a mission to tell stories through photos. An award-winning independent photojournalist, Lepe has worked in the newspaper industry for the past 22 years, with experience ranging from taking digital photos with the latest high-tech cameras to developing traditional film in labs and darkrooms.
While Lepe has deep roots in the Bay Area, her journey was not easy. She crossed the border from Mexico as an undocumented immigrant twice: first as an infant and then later at nine years old. The second time, she was with her cousin and sister and was later reunited with her mother in San Jose. Although she’s moved a few times, Lepe has always found her way back to San Jose. “I identify [San Jose] as my home, even though I’m from somewhere else. I feel like I’m a native of San Jose. It’s kind of like it’s my city. I’m proud of it,” she said. Initially, as an English learner with dyslexia, she struggled in school. Yet that’s where her career path started. “I was able to take an elective for photography, and there I found my passion through photography and the dark room,” said Lepe. “It opened my eyes to a different way to communicate, and it was also my escape.” In those early days, she went to Coyote Creek in San Jose to practice taking photos. She shared, “I would create images that were beautiful in black and white, and even though we were like, ‘It’s the creek, it’s the ghetto,’ it was a way to escape to this fantasy with creating images.”
While Lepe was told she could never go to college due to her dyslexia, she ended up graduating from San Jose State University with a BFA in photography. “I didn’t want to be a waitress, and I knew education was a path to change that,” said Lepe. “Being an immigrant, being poor, I knew that education was going to open the doors to something new.”
More recently, Lepe went back to school for her MFA and graduated in December 2022. “No matter what, I always try to keep moving. Even if there was something where they said ‘No, the door is shut,’ then I’ll try again. If someone gives me ‘no’ as an answer, I find a different way,” said Lepe.
Over the years, Lepe worked odd jobs to help contribute to the family income. At one point, she worked full-time at The Mercury News. Now she splits her time between freelance work— often for The Associated Press and covering sports pieces—and her own projects. She had work featured at the de Young Museum’s 2023 de Young Open and at the San Jose gallery Chopsticks Alley Art (through January 2024).
For her personal projects, La Cena (Supper) is one that is a series of portraits that capture the diversity within the modern-day “Latine” community’s families. “There’s that whole image of the brown people being in a dump, or your house is falling apart, or whatever it is, but not all of us are in that. There are different variations of us. It’s a spectrum,” described Lepe. “Also, we all come from different countries. There are Latin Americans, there are Afro Latinos, there’s indigenous people— everybody is part of that ‘Latines’ group.” Lepe uses the term “Latines” for her work instead of “Latinx,” as “Latinx” always sounded more like a label for an experiment rather than an inclusive term. “ ‘Es’ is basically ‘we.’ It makes us, us. So to me, ‘Latines’ became more of a proper use of the term,” explained Lepe.
Lepe has always found herself documenting subcultures that she sees have not historically been fairly represented. She specifically focuses on women’s empowerment and the story of the immigrant in a positive way. “We always see visual images like the famous images of the drunken guy in Mexico or the prostitute at a bar. But there’s two sides of the story there. There are positive people that are working that are part of society, and we should show that more. I’m more about the positive visual representation,” Lepe said. She previously did a story on women passionate about their cars. “It wasn’t about being the trophy wife or the trophy in the car. It was more about them and their passion about [car] culture,” explained Lepe.
Today, Lepe works with graduate students at Stanford with photography lab work. She hopes that this job will give her more flexibility to spend less time freelancing and more time on her own series and projects.
“I HAVE TWO RULES when you enter my studio. One: no negative self-talk. Two: we always ask for consent.” Brittany R. Bradley, Britt for short, is an award-winning alternative process photographer. She uses the collodion wet plate process to memorialize her participants on a tin or metal plate, portraying them such that they feel powerful and authentic to themselves. Through her Calumet Cambo 8×10, Britt not only captures moments in time but also sparks a dialogue that resonates deeply with those who encounter her work.
As of January 2023, Britt is one of 21 artists in the city of Palo Alto’s Cubberley Artist Studio Program (CASP). The program offers artist residencies at a subsidized rate in exchange for artist-led free public programming. The four-year residency allows artists to dive deeply into their art practice while allowing time to create community with their fellow artists and the public.
Upon stepping into Britt’s studio, one feels safe and comfortable. Britt’s collaborative process allows participants to control how they are portrayed. She offers her expertise and skills to guide the collective vision, ultimately empowering the subject with the creative reins. “If there is something you don’t like, we talk about it directly. Accurately representing people and history feels more important than making a good technical photo. Photography focuses far too much on the technical and not enough on the humanity of it.”
The community aspect of the CASP program was essential for Britt. “Your identity is such a complex thing. It is a learned behavior to negate our multifaceted selves, to shrink ourselves down to fit into something comfortable for others. I think that just means you’re around the wrong people. When you’re around the right people, they want you to take up space and be louder. Being here at Cubberley, surrounded by incredible women artists, empowers me to do so.”
In 2019, Britt and two other photographers were hired to document a two-day event where over 150 members of the Bay Area’s Indigenous community came together for the reclamation of the site where the Early Days monument once stood. The project emboldened the local Indigenous community to redefine their public perception. Britt feels it is important for her to use her seat at the table to demand there be one for the Indigenous community, allowing for a more accurate representation of our collective histories. “Photography has a history of not accurately representing communities of color, the queer community, women. I want to do my part in changing that narrative, giving those communities the power to represent themselves.”
Since the collodion process requires several steps to capture a single shot, access to a permanent studio allows Britt to have a round-the-clock space to shoot and develop photos in her darkroom at her own pace. When out in the field, Britt utilizes her custom-built mobile darkroom, Ruby. This allows her to transport all the necessary materials needed to process wet plate photographs on the go. Britt typically uses Ruby at protests and rallies but also to provide interactive public demonstrations and collaborative group sessions.
Britt grew up in Groveland, located in Gold Rush Country near Yosemite. Both of her parents were educators and encouraged Britt and her three brothers to spend time outdoors. “When I was eight, my father taught me to develop film.” Today, both Britt’s day job and art practice focus on photography and its related practices. “While my mom never discouraged me from pursuing the arts, she was worried I wouldn’t be able to make a living. But she isn’t as conventional as she thinks. She is strong, outspoken, does everything her own way, and has an unwavering moral compass.” One might describe Britt similarly, noting her alternative photography process and fight for uncovering historical and modern-day truths.
When not capturing people on a metal plate or tin, Britt is the collections care specialist at the Hoover Institution at Stanford University. This work allows Britt to use her technical skills in a different way. She currently lives in San Jose and is part of Silicon Valley Roller Derby. In an upcoming project, Britt will use the alternative photography process to document the eightwheeled sport, noting how it challenges athleticism and how it is presented in society.
Britt’s work goes beyond the visual, becoming a captivating narrative delving into history’s obscured corners. With a discerning eye and a genuine commitment to authenticity, Britt’s lens captures more than just images but also the essence of forgotten stories, inviting viewers to explore the complexities of our shared human journey.
“None of it is easy; it’s all slow,” Britt shares, referencing not only her art practice but life itself. “It’s a challenge to love and be in love in this day and age. All we can do is try. Try to be good to ourselves, and to our communities. In little ways, every day, we undermine ourselves. I think what is so important about being an artist is surrounding yourself with enough people who give you permission to stop doing that. Being able to be in a community that speaks your name in a room when you’re not in it—that’s the only way we get to push forward.”
Britt’s intentionality and care allow her to view problems not as problems but as indicators for deeper issues. “The truth exists somewhere between your experience and someone else’s. Perspective is a form of truth, but it doesn’t mean your perspective is the only truth.”
Alex was down on his luck after high school, when his best friend, a graphic designer, financed a camera for him. “I was kinda lost, and he put a tool in my hand,” Alex explains. “Ever since, it was hard to let go of the camera.” Following Bobby Kim and Ben Shenassafar of the Hundreds, he adopted his streetwear blog title, The Knowbody, as a pseudonymous last name.
He launched the Knowbody clothing brand, and along with “little random photography gigs,” that sufficed until he became a father, which requires more income. He and some friends opened a clothing boutique, Pesos Bodega, but it didn’t last long because they were too inexperienced. Alex then worked in apartment maintenance.
“I was kinda lost, and he put a tool in my hand. Ever since, it was hard to let go of the camera.” -Alex Knowbody
One day, when he was scrolling Instagram, he noticed that Iguanas Burritozilla, a San Jose–based restaurant, wasn’t getting the attention their “deliciousness” deserved. So, he called and became their unofficial creative director. He doesn’t even remember if he got paid, but it paid off, because he picked up more clients, and his supplemental income grew enough for him to quit his job.
Alex started the creative agency Better Than Good Enough LLC. “I was just tired of doing half-ass shit. I want to do better than that,” he shares. His LLC gave him the opportunity to work with the metal band Maya at Google on a Día de los Muertos collage project and to shoot for the Earthquakes—including photos of Wondo (number 8), who is retiring this season.
After having grown up in East San Jose, Alex moved to Portland for two years with his wife and daughter. In Portland, shooting a bike for Nike’s BIKETOWN PDX Latino Heritage Month boosted his confidence in himself and his developing style as he homed in on his Mexican culture and Latino heritage. San Jose had many Hispanic locations and models, but Portland was a foreign city. “Where the majority of the city’s white, there’s not a lot of [Latino] inspiration…I had to look for it,” Alex says.
During COVID-19, work dried up, from closed restaurants to cancelled events—including his planned art show. So, Alex, his wife, daughter, cat, and fish moved back to San Jose—to all live in one room in his mother-inlaw’s house. Private family photo sessions, along with becoming the creative director for Purple Lotus cannabis dispensary, got him through COVID-19 and helped bring back his belief in himself.
Alex’s dad is from Mexico and his mom is first-generation San Josean, which makes him a “first-and-a-half-generation” San Josean. Growing up, Alex felt like an outcast. “I couldn’t choose one [parent] to identify with, because I identified with both,” he says, regarding the Americanized Chicano side and the Mexican-rooted paisano side. “There is a lot of that here, but maybe the people don’t have the outlet to express it,” he continues. One outlet he attended was the Día de los Muertos Aztec dancing at the Mexican Heritage Plaza, where he took his daughter to water her cultural “seeds.”
Alex’s family is a family of creatives. His daughter is bold enough at nine years old to cut her hair and dye it bright green, and his wife paints and just launched her lifestyle brand, the Madre Life. For Alex, fatherhood is an inspiring change. “I feel like a lot of things could be cleared up if you just have clear communication. And I’m learning that through experiencing putting myself in my daughter’s shoes.”
After being featured on The FIRM podcast this year, Alex was asked to participate in the documentary San Jose Is Not for Sale. The squad, all from East San Jose, are working pro bono. “Everybody is doing it for the love for the city, because we give a shit…we have a story to tell,” he shares. “We feel like everybody tries to tell the story of San Jose in a way that maybe a lot of us don’t understand, and now it’s our turn.” They’re photographing things like local coffee shops, artists, and flea market vendors who face displacement to showcase the change that the city’s going through. Alex elaborates, “That shit’s gonna be dope. Like, the images, the stories, the people we get to interview…if it doesn’t mean shit to anybody else, it’s gonna mean something to us. This is a project that we are all gonna be super proud of.”
When asked about times he felt like giving up, he shares, “That’s every day, honestly… there’s good days and there’s bad days, and those bad days feel like forever…not only you feel it, but your family feels it.” Alex wants to inspire other people: “If that fool could do it, I could do it…I’m just an average-ass dude who, like, put in the time and effort into creating.”
“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.
A wheat-pasted poster on a San Francisco sidewalk may be commonplace for 99 percent of passersby. For photographer Dan Fenstermacher, the details caught his eye from across the street: an ambiguous lower body clothed in shorts and walking shoes—leg tattoos exposed—standing on a trail with marketing copy that read “on the path to zero impact.” Dan also noticed a burly, shirtless man thirty feet away walking towards the poster; he had patchy body hair on his chest that shared an uncanny resemblance to a smiley face. Dan hurried across the street to catch the convergence of the two. The photo he captured juxtaposes a hipster on a hike with a shirtless man on a city street—both of whom are uniquely getting in touch with nature—and puts a humorous spin on the sustainability marketing technique of showing people experiencing the outdoors. The composition plays with body level, placing the lower body on the poster in line with the man’s upper half. While any similarity between those two figures could be viewed as an abstract coincidence, Dan sees potential in layering and capturing dissimilar details with eye-catching composition to create something new, authentic, and often funny.
Dan Fenstermacher is a burgeoning photographer with internationally recognized work. He’s also a professor and chair of the West Valley College photography program, a contributor to The San Francisco Standard, and a volunteer photographer for the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Dan’s projects blend street photography and photojournalism with clever juxtaposition; his photos are most known for their vibrant colors, use of flash, and humorous composition.
Originally from Seattle, Washington, Dan obtained a bachelor’s degree in advertising from the University of Idaho before moving to Los Angeles to pursue a career in marketing. While there, he realized that advertising has less to do with creative ad concepts and more with market research, data analysis, and spreadsheets. Dan recalls, “I hated it. I started taking photography classes at night through a local community college while doing those advertising jobs. I had a roommate at the time who went off to Korea to teach English, so I figured I could do the same thing.” Dan went on to use his community college photo credits to teach fine art in China, aided by student translators. Later, he enrolled in a graduate photography program at San Jose State University.
“Traveling makes me feel alive. When you experience a new culture, it’s like getting to experience life again for the first time.”
Dan’s photography is rooted in detail and captures reality at the core of often misunderstood situations. “I have always been an observer,” he says. “I tend to notice things that most people wouldn’t consider. I like to combine street photography with journalistic documentary themes.” Each of Dan’s projects captures a range of topics and manages to juxtapose conception with reality. His project documenting seniors in Costa Rica contrasts American society’s fear of aging with the joy and experience seen on the faces of the elderly. His “Streets to the Dirt” project documents Black cowboys in Richmond, California, and shows that cowboys are not just White men in movies. Dan continues to broaden his photo expeditions, explaining that “traveling makes me feel alive. When you experience a new culture, it’s like getting to experience life again for the first time.” Dan’s career as a photography professor allows him to embrace his passion while surrounded by inspiring up-and-coming student artists. Dan aligns his trips with his school schedule and plans to travel to Guadalajara, Mexico, to document mariachi culture. His next goal is to produce his first self-published photo book.
