Interview with William Camargo

TERE GARCIA: Hi Will, let’s start by talking about your Instagram project, The Latinx Diaspora Archive. Could you tell us more about it?

WILLIAM CAMARGO: Sure. I started the project a little over a year ago. I often tell people that I’m not a professional archivist, but I think community archives are reshaping what deserves to be preserved. For me, this means collecting and creating spaces for archives that reflect everyday life in our communities.

One challenge I face is that families are understandably hesitant to give up their photos—they’re personal treasures. But when I explain that these photos contribute to a larger narrative, a counter-narrative, it often changes their perspective. These images help tell the story of our communities, highlighting the richness of everyday life and pushing back against dominant cultural norms.

My family is from Guerrero, Mexico, an area with deep Indigenous and Afro-Mexican roots, which are often erased within both Mexico and broader Latin America. So, this project also seeks to uplift those histories. In the bigger picture, it’s about challenging the traditional frameworks of archives. For example, in Los Angeles, there’s The LA Family Archive, but we have to question: Who controls it? Who has access?

I’ve faced criticism, too. Some say Instagram isn’t a valid archive, but I see it differently. Instagram allows me to capture and share ephemeral moments—like a quinceañera or a baptism. It’s not just about the physical photograph; it’s about preserving the essence of the moment.

TG: How do you see these narratives evolving beyond Instagram? And what’s next for you?

WC: My next step is finding a physical space where I can have the autonomy to invite people, hold discussions, and engage with the community. I want to create encounters—encuentros—where people can share their archives with mutual trust and understanding.

It’s not just about asking for their photographs. It’s about building relationships, bringing resources to their communities, and making it a two-way exchange.

As an artist, people often try to pigeonhole me—“You’re just an artist.” But for people of color, especially artists of color, we’re so much more. I teach, organize, advocate, and work with communities. It’s all interconnected.

TG: How did you begin your journey in photography?

WC: I’ve been a photographer for over 10 years, and my work has evolved significantly. I started as a photojournalist and did that for six or seven years. While it gave me a foundation, I realized that photojournalism often falls short. The history of photography has a violent side—it’s been used to perpetuate stereotypes and eugenics.

Working as a photojournalist in Chicago, I covered issues like deportations, gang violence, and ICE raids. But the objectivity expected of photojournalists didn’t sit well with me. As a person of color, I couldn’t just stand by without advocating for change.

Eventually, I turned the camera on myself. Instead of exploiting others, I began using my own body in my work. It became a way to address social and political issues through performance and self-portraiture.

TG: What’s your relationship with Chicano art, and how has it influenced your practice?

WC: I’ve always admired ASCO and their innovative approach to art. They were one of the first groups I saw connecting our history to avant-garde practices. Their work blended humor with sharp commentary on the realities of their neighborhoods, which resonated with me.

I draw from that tradition—taking inspiration from the history of photography and performance while challenging it. Historically, the art world has been dominated by white male narratives. Black, Brown and Native artists have always found ways to borrow and reimagine these histories because we were excluded from them.

TG: That exclusion persists in institutions. I remember at the University of Houston, Chicano art wasn’t even discussed until Delilah Montoya started teaching a class on it. What are your thoughts on the current push for institutions to better teach Black, Brown, Native, and Queer art?

WC: I’ll be teaching soon, and for me, it’s about ensuring these narratives aren’t limited to specific months like Black History Month or Hispanic Heritage Month. Chicano and Black artists were creating alongside each other and their white contemporaries, but those connections are often ignored.

Institutions still have a lot of work to do, but the conversation is growing, and that’s encouraging.

TG: Can you tell us about The Mickey Mouse Failure Fam?

WC: That series is part of a larger project, Origins, and Displacements, which began as my thesis work. It’s rooted in the history of Anaheim, my hometown. Before the pandemic, I was digging through archives, photographing my community, and documenting landscapes.

The project started years ago when two Chicano men were killed by police in one weekend. It shook the city. I began photographing my surroundings—capturing the lives and stories of people in my community while also exploring Anaheim’s history of segregation and inequity.

Now, the work has evolved. It includes performance and interventions, blending past and present to make connections. For example, one piece features me holding a sign that says, “This Park Used to Be Segregated.” That park was part of my childhood, and learning about its history pushed me to confront the hidden legacies in our cities.

TG: What about your series All That I Can Carry?

WC: That project started during the pandemic. I wanted to make art with the materials I had at home—everyday objects that reflect my identity. It’s inspired by Rasquachismo, a concept of resourceful creativity within Chicano art.

For example, I used bags of beans from my mom’s supermarket job and chairs my uncle made. These objects carry cultural weight and tell stories about my family and community. The work combines sculpture, performance, and photography, challenging traditional art forms while staying true to who I am.

TG: Your work is deeply rooted in Anaheim, but it addresses national issues like gentrification. How do you see your role in documenting and shaping these narratives?

WC: My work reflects Anaheim, but the themes are universal. Gentrification is happening everywhere. Pieces like “This Area Will Gentrify Soon” highlight injustices tied to land and displacement.

As an educator, I bring these conversations into the classroom, encouraging students to question and challenge their surroundings. Every city has a history people avoid talking about. My goal is to uncover those stories and ensure they aren’t forgotten.

TG: Thank you, Will. Your work is powerful, and it’s creating an archive that future generations will learn from.

WC: Thank you. That’s what I hope for—to preserve and share these stories while inspiring others to look deeper into their histories.

From the series All The Stuff I Can Carry, 2020