Here, he tells VICE about “the real French Riviera,” the skaters, ravers, graffiti kids, and outcasts who call it home, and why it isn’t just a playground for people who own leather driving gloves and asteroid-mining companies.

VICE: How did you get into photography?
Arnaud Dambry: When I was a teenager, I would take photos of my friends and the streets during skate sessions. At first I actually wanted to be a painter. I was a bit lost. I tried getting into art school and got rejected.

After that I moved to London and met this guy at Southbank who was shooting with little disposable Kodak cameras, way before the Instagram hype. I bought one too and instantly fell in love. For a long time, I became ‘the disposable camera guy.’ Not long after that the documentary LA Originals came out. It completely shook me. That’s when I told myself, OK, this is really what I want to do.

You only work with analog, right? Could you describe your process a little bit?
I completely fell in love with film photography for a thousand reasons. The color science, the fact that every film stock has its own personality (I still miss Fuji 400H), and the way you can’t just shoot non-stop like on a digital camera hoping one shot comes out good. I’m not gonna lie, I hate post-production. I can’t stand spending four hours editing a photo trying to give it a soul. Either the photo hits, or it doesn’t.

[My process] really depends on what I’m shooting. Most of the time I’m walking around with one or two cameras, watching, waiting for interactions or creating them. But when it comes to documenting a specific subject, I’ll do my research, and I always find a way to be at the right place at the right time.

What would you say are people’s main stereotypical ideas about the south of France?
I think there are two different lenses when it comes to the French Riviera: the international one and the French one. From the outside, places like Cannes, St. Tropez, and Monaco are all about luxury, parties, celebrities, and bling. For French people who don’t live there, it’s often seen as a retirement zone, where politics lean more toward older people and security rather than youth and culture. It’s the kind of place that’s great for a week of vacation, but you don’t really picture yourself living there. But when you dig a little deeper, there are other alternative realities trying to exist.

So what’s it actually like, in your view?
For me, the French Riviera is basically a bubble inside the country. It’s a region full of contrasts on every level. You can have some of the richest people in the world, the biggest yachts, the most luxurious palaces—then you turn your head and see people struggling to get by right in front of the sea, along with an invisible middle class that keeps everything running. It’s also contrasted because you’ve got two teams: the people who live by the coast and the people who live in the mountains; two completely different energies. When you grow up or live there, you don’t see the country’s social issues the same way as someone living in the northeast of France, for example. 

In my reality, the Riviera is an incredible region where you have everything you could want. Some of the most beautiful beaches in the world, the mountains just an hour away, crazy nature, amazing food culture, and it’s sunny like 300 days a year. We have a strong, distinctive identity and culture. There’s a reason why people from all over the world save for a whole year, sometimes a whole lifetime, just to come here. When you think about it, that’s wild. For that reason alone, we should feel grateful for where we come from.

What drew you to documenting the counter-cultural side of it?
Mostly because it’s where I’m from. I’m part of the middle class you don’t really see when you come to the Riviera on vacation—the regular people who don’t have a €4 million villa with a pool in the hills, who don’t drive luxury cars, or any of the clichés people imagine when I say I’m from Cannes.

I’m just documenting my life and the lives of those around me, trying to shine a light on them. My friend circles have always been super mixed. I’ve hung out with people who have everything and others who have nothing. I’m lucky to have friends doing all kinds of things, some who throw the biggest underground parties in the area, some skaters who’ve been featured in Thrasher, others who are artists, graffiti writers, dancers, and so on. The Cannes Film Festival parties are funny to look at, but nothing beats being with your own people.

Has that counterculture always been there or is it relatively recent?
It’s always been there. Back in the 50s, there was a collective called Nouveau Réalisme, with major artists like Yves Klein, Martial Raysse, Arman, Nikki de Saint Phalle, etc., who were doing kind of what we’re doing, just in a different era. Then in the 90s and early 2000s, a lot was happening with the rise of skateboarding and other subcultures.

After that, there was a gap. The next generations didn’t really keep those movements alive. A lot of people left to try their luck elsewhere, so the region was a bit neglected for a while. Then COVID indirectly shook things up. There’s definitely a clear before and after.

A lot has been happening over the past five or six years. Collectives are forming, new spots are popping up. It’s promising, for sure, and heading in the right direction.

How would you describe the vibe of the French Riviera underground? What kind of music gets played at the parties? What does a typical Friday night look like?
Electronic music has definitely taken over a lot of the scene. You can find really niche parties  with international DJ line-ups ( Romanian, UK, Italian) as well as groovier nights in clubs and other spots. There’s also been a lot of growth in hip-hop events lately, with local artists, DJs, and some big names from the French music scene.

Honestly, today you’ve got a bit of everything. Compared to a few years ago, the scene has changed a lot for the better. That said, underground culture means it takes time to put together cool, high-quality, safe events, so we’re not yet at the same pace as a capital city where you can go out anywhere every Friday night. But step by step, we’re getting there.

Is there an ethos that unites the people in your photographs?
The people I photograph around the world are often individuals who are free or searching for freedom, and that’s exactly what draws me to them. A way of being, a spontaneity, a desire to break free from other people’s expectations. Deep down, their quest for freedom reflects my own. I have that same deep need to be free, and I think it’s because of that shared energy that people let me into their lives and trust me with their image.

Who’s the most interesting or memorable person you’ve photographed?
There are so many interesting people I’ve had the chance to photograph in the South, but I remember one guy in particular at the wild Decadance parties my friends used to throw. He was in a wheelchair, came to every party, and would dance front left until late at night, like his disability didn’t even exist. I’ve always had a lot of admiration for that guy.

You co-founded an art collective called Le Sud Fait Mieux, which means “The South Does It Better.” Tell me a bit about that.
That’s our way of saying thank you to the South. When you’re having a good time with your friends, the sunset is perfect, you’re roasting on a beach next to the turquoise water or whatever the vibe is, you just say: ‘le sud fait mieux.’ It basically became a little saying within our group.

It was born from a desire to bring some new energy back to the south of France after COVID. There was an open lane right after the first lockdown, and everyone had that fire to create cool projects after being stuck at home for so long. A lot of collectives popped up, most of them focused on partying, but we wanted to do something different. We’re all artists from different worlds—photographers, DJs, designers, rappers, painters, etc—and the idea was to create something people from the region could relate to, in one way or another.

The problem, like in a lot of countries, is that everything is centralized in the capital, and we all felt kind of overlooked. So, instead of waiting for things to come to us, we decided to make it happen ourselves. It’s been almost five years now, and I just want to thank my whole team: Tino, Fa, Gab, You, Pris, and Pierre.

What’s the story behind these shots (above)?
This is my homie Duardo in the photo, a real one. A guy coming from the lowriding, tattoo, and Chicano culture. He’s exactly the kind of person who keeps the culture alive down here. He’s a top tattoo artist in our area, and with his crew, they set up a spot dedicated to tattoos and cars, kinda like what Cartoon and Estevan Oriol were doing in L.A. back in the 90s. These photos were taken at one of their lowrider meetings. He and his crew basically have one of the biggest car collections in France.

How would you describe the alternative French Riviera in three words? 
I’d say it’s a “work in progress.” Come check us out, you won’t be disappointed. There are real people here!

Follow Arnaud on Instagram: @lilnoaar

The post Bad Boys of the French Riviera appeared first on VICE.

“All strip clubs, for me, have been empty shells. Without the girls, it’s mayhem. With them, it’s Narnia”

Vienna-born, New York-based photographer Eva Zar likes to get amongst it. She’s slept with wolves, photographed trans women on horseback in the California desert, and documented 72-hour raves. In her ongoing series God Is a Stripper, she follows the next generation of strippers in NYC. Capturing them not just onstage and in their dressing room, but also in their bedrooms and doing laundry, Zar says the project is about the girls, not just the clubs they dance in. “I was interested in her world outside of the club. Her home, her commute, her life.”

With daydream-like intimacy and a soft focus—sort of like ‘What if Sofia Coppola was interested in baddies?’—Zar renders her subjects as deities, showing stripping’s sacred side.

VICE: Where did your love affair with strip clubs begin?
Eva Zar: I first became interested in strippers when I was doom scrolling TikTok. On my For You Page, a stripper was rating strip clubs in New York City. I immediately fell in love with her. I messaged asking, “Can I photograph you one day?” She responded, “Can you come by the club tonight?”

Tell me about the first club you went to. How did expectations stack up against reality? 
The first was in Queens. While waiting for one of the girls, the bouncer complained about his ex wife. I guess she walked away with the good couch in their divorce. He made me walk through a metal detector and sent me on my way.

All strip clubs, for me, have been empty shells. Without the girls, it’s mayhem. With them, it’s Narnia. They’re able to transform hollow stages into a hidden world that exists parallel to the one outside. I remember one of my girls, Laia, said, “This is a place where you learn to reclaim your sensuality and turn it into power. You learn to speak your truth without shame, transcending fears and transforming them into currency.”

One of the girls remarked that the way you capture them is very “romantic,” and it’s true. Some of the shots make them look like religious icons, almost. What approach did you want to take with the project?
I like that you view my photographs of the girls as iconic, that’s the goal. Strippers are often viewed as objects you can use at your disposal, they’ve certainly been captured that way many times. My goal with God Is a Stripper is to achieve the exact opposite. I’m interested in beauty, glam, magic. I love putting my subjects on a pedestal, making them look and feel like goddesses. In David LaChapelle’s words, “When you take a picture of something, you change the way it’s seen.” I think about that sentiment a lot. 

Tell me more about your thinking behind the title.
The word “God” is so loaded, often tied to organized religion. I think of it more as spirituality, connection, faith. In the strip club, I notice spiritual reminders everywhere. It’s a sticker on a locker that says “the universe is on my side,” a tattoo, a piece of jewelry. I want both the title to reflect and the photographs to visualize that. Many of the girls, myself included, believe in a bigger dream for all of us. We behave like it’s already true, no proof needed. 

“God” is also someone that’s an inspiration, something sacred. It’s important for me to define strippers just as that: icons who inspire through their persistence, strength, intelligence, beauty, and grace.

“I notice spiritual reminders everywhere. It’s a sticker on a locker that says ‘the universe is on my side,’ a tattoo, a piece of jewelry”

The project doesn’t just focus on what’s going on in the club, the camera lingers on the girls afterwards—capturing their commute, their homes, their trips to the laundrette. Why did you want to make that such a big aspect of it?
Totally. It’s always been about the girls first, the strip club becomes one of the backdrops we can play with. It’s like our own little movie set, except it’s real. My first question when thinking about strippers is always, “Girl, what does your life look like outside of these four walls?” I find that so fascinating—these girls live in two worlds. I want to photograph both.

Interestingly, there isn’t a strong aesthetic distinction between the photographs taken inside the club and outside of the club; the vibe is the same because the girls’ energy is what comes across the most.
Exactly, both worlds are part of her. What keeps surprising me is how quickly the girls can turn it on and off, like actresses. And honestly, some of my photographs are staged to some degree. There’s this tradition in documentary photography that you have to capture someone off guard, a candid moment, as an “attempt” to uncover reality. But think about it, we’re a social media-first society. This is reality. Her performance, her pose, the way she does her hair, make-up, nails for my camera… It tells us so much about who she’s trying to be and how she wants to be seen. Sometimes that’s even more honest.

Strip clubs in America often have a geographical reputation—Atlanta, Miami, etc. How would you describe the ‘character’ of strip clubs in New York City, if there is one?
I think what characterizes New York City also defines its strip clubs. It can be gritty and dark, but also very powerful and full of dreams. New Yorkers are true hustlers and we’ll do whatever it takes, no compromise. New York City can be the best and worst place to live in. If you don’t know what you want, it’ll eat you alive. Quickly, and without mercy. But if you know what you’re after, the impossible becomes possible here, those who create on their own terms are my biggest inspiration. Renèe said something that stuck with me: “It’s crazy how New York always puts the perfect people into your path at the right time… us meeting is New York unfolding in the way it always does.”

“What characterizes New York City also defines its strip clubs. It can be gritty and dark, but also very powerful and full of dreams”

Do you have a favorite shot in the project so far? Or a favorite moment?
Each photograph is very special to me, however there’s a moment: Renèe and I were driving up to Harlem. The sun was just setting, we’re on West Side Highway. It felt like one of those movie moments. You’re alive but somehow you’re living out a scene. We’re talking about life, drugs, dreams, clients, sobriety, love—everything and anything, like we’ve known each other forever. Anora by Sean Baker had just come out. I said, you know, I think Sean Baker would like our photographs, for him to see my work would be a dream. Sean is an artist I genuinely look up to, from Tangerine to Florida Project and now Anora. A couple weeks ago, Sean Baker followed my work on Instagram—talk about manifestation. 

Where do you think the project will go next?
I’d love for God Is a Stripper to become a book and an exhibition. It feels like the beginning of something special. It’s the largest body of personal work I’ve created so far and there’s still so much to photograph. In my dream, I’d like the work to live in print, on walls, in spaces where you can sit with it. A little universe we created together. As an artist, you have a longing to transcend and hopefully, my photographs can be that portal into an unseen world.

Follow Eva on Instagram: @evazar

The post The Strippers of New York City, 2025 appeared first on VICE.

Back in late summer, VICE sent Ahmed Alramly and photographer Bill Taylor to Los Angeles with a simple mission: to party with and photograph local Deftones fans, to buy them as many drinks as they wanted, and to find out what the band means to them.

This is the story of what Ahmed and Bill heard while navigating the pool halls, dive bars, and hillside beauty spots in and around the city, stories that ranged from, essentially, “they are just fucking cool” to more heartfelt thoughts on Latino representation in heavy music.

Nu metal as a whole would never have existed without Latin Americans. Latinos are historically well represented in the genre, there in the ranks of some of the Discman era’s most definitive bands, including Ill Niño, Coal Chamber, Korn, Static-X, Incubus, P.O.D., Papa Roach, Rage Against the Machine, Fear Factory, and a bunch more. Arguably the prize pig of the bunch, though they sit well outside the ‘nu-metal’ label now, is Deftones.

Hailing from the predominately Hispanic Oak Park neighborhood of Sacramento, Deftones is embraced by fans across California and beyond for its Latin connections. The father of frontman Chino Moreno and the mother of lead guitarist Steph Carpenter are both Mexican (Chino’s mother also has Mexican ancestry, as well as being part Native American, part Irish, and part Chinese).

The band, for its part, has tended to take the popular Gen X position of shrugging off labels. When asked about their identity early on, their usual response was to say that they’re from a “mixed” area of California and bill themselves as, simply, a metal band. “I don’t think we really think of it at all,” Moreno told an interviewer in 1997, who remarked on them being “two Mexicans, a Chinese guy, and a white dude.” But they’ve leaned into their roots more in recent years, be it through their annual Dia de Los Deftones festival held on the Day of the Dead, or acknowledging the connection they share with fans in certain parts of the world.

“I notice we have a big Latin following and it’s awesome to see faces, familiar faces, that you don’t know, but they look like my brothers and sisters, my cousins,” Moreno told GRAMMY.com in 2020. “There’s this connection that’s there, that’s just sort of unspoken.”

Below, Angelenos tell us what role Deftones has played in their lives.

MIA

“You know, in Latino culture, music’s fucking sad. It’s heavy, it’s sad, it has a lot of strings, and I think that is a natural gateway to getting into emo and like, hardcore shit. Everything’s deeply emotional. It conjures up shit. You know, Deftones is straight-up crooner shit. Chino’s a crooner! It’s very much boleros and classic Latin music. I opened for Deftones once, and Chino came up to me and said, ‘That was a good set.’ I always loved that he did that.”

Amor (below, far left)

“My older sister put me onto Deftones—I was probably in like, sixth grade, and White Pony was the first album I heard. I love them so much. Seeing a Latino frontman singing the kind of music that he was, pioneering their own type of genre—people call it ‘nu metal’ but really they are their own thing—like, a Mexican doing that was really cool. Now, as an adult, I resonate to that. For me and everyone else who appreciates seeing Black and brown representation in these alternative genres of music, Deftones is important.”

Gabrielle

“I moved to LA 11 years ago, to dance. I took ballet and jazz classes, then fell in love with pole dancing. I’ve been dancing at Jumbo’s Clown Room forever. I grew up in Palm Springs and my parents were into grunge, so I always liked rock. I love dancing to Deftones. ‘You’ve Seen the Butcher’? Best song ever; sexiest song in the world. I’m dancing my life away to Deftones, wherever it takes me. I’m a witch, I’m over 100 years old (laughs). Witchy in life.”

Christian

“I’m 29. I skate, I’m in a band with my brother—we have no name yet, but we’ve been jamming every day since I was 14 and he was 12. Growing up in middle school, people were always like ‘Wassup rocker?’ I got in so many fights, but I’ll beat your ass in skinny jeans.

“Our backyard shows now are in the hood, so you get all types of fools pulling up. Random ass cholos just doing NOS. I don’t know my real dad but I’m lucky to be here, I beat all the statistics. My stepdad gang banged, and my mom had me at 15 in Inglewood. She low-key held it down, she made sure I wasn’t fucking up too much. With Deftones, it was just cool to see people do shit that looked like me.”

Creative Director: Ahmed Alramly
Photographer: Bill Taylor
Make-Up: Selena Ruiz
Hair: Anastasia Terebova
Casting Director: Alex Carranza
Featuring: Giselle Lopez, Mia Carucci, Gabrielle, Christian Chapo, Amor Morales, Andrew Bahena, Boogz
Fixer: Speedy
Intro Text: Emma Garland

This photo story is taken from the fall 2025 issue of VICE magazine, THE BE QUIET AND DRIVE ISSUE, a Deftones special. We’ve sold out our copies, the only ones left are in stores—perhaps there’s one near you? Secure yourself the next 4 issues by subscribing.

The post Angel Eyes: Why Los Angeles Loves Deftones appeared first on VICE.

It’s an A-List VICE fashion shoot at a wax museum in Tijuana, Mexico.

CREDITS:
Photographer: @jamieleecurtistaete
Stylist: @alexisbergens

Models: The prophet Abraham, Ayatollah Khomeini, Fidel Castro, Diana Princess of Wales, Freddy Krueger, Mikhail Gorbachev, Julia Roberts, Jack the Ripper, Jack the Ripper’s nameless victim, La “The Weeping Woman” Llorona, Luis Miguel, John F. Kennedy, Barack Obama, Sylvester Stallone, Wesley Snipes, a werewolf, Vicente Fox & Whoopi Goldberg

Location: Museo de Cera de Tijuana

This fashion shoot is from the summer 2025 issue of VICE magazine: The Reasons to Be Cheerful Issue. You can buy the individual issue, or subscribe and get 4 issues delivered to your door each year.

The post Wax With Drip appeared first on VICE.

“You can smell human agony inside of the McDonald’s there. Fentanyl smoke, a distinct odor of burning SOLO Cups mixed with scorched marshmallows, an evil scent that signals suffering is nearby. ‘War Zone’ smokers have unmistakable vocal tics: anxious spit swallows from inhaling plumes of glass [crystal meth], deep croaking from opioid-aluminum lined lungs… Still, credit where it’s due: many… are working towards sobriety. An important milestone is quitting fentanyl, tapering down to heroin.”

Frank Blazquez says it’s his duty to seize what’s in front of him “before it vanishes.” Born and raised in Chicago, the self-taught photographer relocated to New Mexico in 2010 in search of a clean slate. An optician by trade, he took a job in Albuquerque and fell in with a sober crowd, intending to break the cycle of partying and excessive drug-taking that had enveloped him in Illinois.

It wasn’t long before Frank became drawn to Albuquerque’s “War Zone”—a neighborhood permeated by hard drugs, juvenile crime, and street violence—where his old ways caught up with him. Opiates, this time. By day, he worked at the optometry office. By night, he hung out and sold Oxycontin near Central Avenue and Louisiana Boulevard; “the War Zone nucleus.” 

Eventually, these two worlds collided, and Frank lost his job. When he got clean again in 2016 he enrolled at the University of New Mexico, majoring in history. Meanwhile, inspired by fellow addicts and their desire to get clean and start a new life for themselves, he began making portraits of people in the area by way of telling their stories. His work, which has been widely exhibited and displayed in the Smithsonian, is a series of love stories as much as anything else, offering a blunt but empathetic perspective on life in Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Las Cruces, Roswell, Chaparral, Artesia, Grants—places along the U.S.-Mexico border, where suffering and beauty, hardship and resilience, go hand in hand.

We caught up with Frank to talk about documenting the “War Zone,” what it’s like capturing the rhythm of lives dictated by fentanyl and meth as a recovering addict, and the impact of recent ICE raids on communities in New Mexico.

VICE: You say your work provides “counter-narratives” of New Mexico. What aspects of it would you like people to see through your photos?
Frank Blazquez: I witnessed the power of counter-narratives at the Smithsonian, images challenging the status quo. As a recovering opiate addict, seeing a photograph I made in Belen, New Mexico—a town of 7,000—hanging next to a portrait of Donald Trump was proof that images can equalize, that the margins can stand eye to eye with authority.

On expectations, I respect audience feedback, but I’d rather focus on my perspective, what I want to see through them. For me, it’s essential to reveal insulated pain, the fatigue of routine and memorials that hold people together. I want to capture anticipation, the strange suspension of time that hangs over these lives. My work isn’t here to entertain, seizing what’s in front of me before it vanishes is the mission. 

A lot of your photos are of people living in Albuquerque’s “War Zone.” How would you describe it?
The War Zone is in southeast Albuquerque. Violent robberies occur there frequently. Historically, the presence of blues describes it best. Blues are oxycodone pills. Now they’ve transformed into fentanyl pills and are almost extinct as its evolved powder form has arrived. Residents are accustomed to seeing body bags on asphalt, usually the victims of overdose. Burglar bar windows, slumping adobe motels, shockwaves of gunfire at night. Above it all, the Sandia Mountains press against the sky, crowned in pink light at sunset. 

What’s daily life like for people there? 
Fentanyl powder and crystal methamphetamine. They dictate everything. You can smell human agony inside of the McDonald’s there. Fentanyl smoke, a distinct odor of burning SOLO Cups mixed with scorched marshmallows, an evil scent that signals suffering is nearby. War Zone smokers have unmistakable vocal tics: anxious spit swallows from inhaling plumes of glass, deep croaking from opioid-aluminium lined lungs. Since the pandemic, most users chase the impossible. Smoking shards and opiate abuse—comorbidities of an addict, a combo that makes sobriety unattainable. Beating opiates alone is a 100-to-1 shot, but then they have to win back-to-back championships and do it all over again with meth.

Still, credit where it’s due: many War Zone drug users are working towards sobriety. An important milestone is quitting fentanyl, tapering down to heroin. I heard this in a conversation at a War Zone gas station: “Congratulations, I heard you quit blues [fentanyl] and only shoot black [heroin] now!”

What was it that first drew you to Albuquerque from Chicago?
I was doing a lot of drugs in Illinois. We thought moving to New Mexico would fix it. The desert stripped everything down. No distractions, no hiding. The sun here burns slow, you don’t know if it’s helping or burning you alive. I had to learn that the hard way. 

“My work isn’t here to entertain, seizing what’s in front of me before it vanishes is the mission.”

You photograph a lot of gang members, former addicts, the insides of trap houses. How do you go about gaining the trust of the people you photograph? 
The spaces are threatening. I never forget that. Yet truth finds a way inside—it strips everything down. No armor, no pretense. That willingness to step into their reality is what earns me the chance to photograph it. 

A decade ago I would just knock on random doors and stop people walking on streets to take their portraits. Back then I carried this blind optimism, like safety was guaranteed. The city shifted, crime rose. Parts of Albuquerque became more violent and having been robbed at gunpoint, I had to take precautions. In my earlier work, I encountered killers out on bond on the sidewalk, and I wanted to capture their prison tattoos. A guy had a huge gang emblem across his forehead, he said he was going rob me—he said it so calmly. My hand was shaking as I was holding the camera. He laughed and just rode off. 

How would you describe your relationship to the people you photograph? Are you strictly an observer or do you feel more connected? 
I am more of an observer now. Shooting documentary-style, it’s wise to shut up and remain quiet. Moments can fade within seconds and never return. I thought silence had to be fought off, so I filled it with conversation. Silence isn’t empty, it’s the canvas. People show themselves when they forget you’re there.

One man you photographed told you that “learning about guns at a young age is like our version of Boy Scouts in New Mexico.” How would you describe gun culture there?
Kids carry guns in New Mexico. Teens feel vulnerable to physical harm and a gun simply provides a sense of security. That’s what they all tell me. Yet over the summer, in downtown Albuquerque, I saw a young girl gripping an assault rifle while driving a pick-up truck. Her head, so tiny in this huge vehicle with pink aftermarket interior lights flashing to a pattern of stereo music—clutching the rifle with her free hand as it stood up on the floorboard. 

What’s the story behind the pen and the gun?
I was photographing inside a trap house, more like trap trailer, when I found that pen. One of the women living there worked at a CVS years back, pocketing promo items from sales reps. I was locked in the bathroom while the others used. Nobody wanted a camera around in those moments. The pen and the gun together felt like artifacts, addiction and survival, commerce and violence, the realities of New Mexico condensed into objects on a sink.

“I was locked in the bathroom while the others used. Nobody wanted a camera around in those moments”

In a previous interview, you mentioned that around the time you started pursuing photography and self-promoting on Instagram, locals and old friends would hit you up asking you to take their portraits. What do you think is the impulse behind that? 
At that time, I was kicking heroin and oxy. I was researching documentary stills from the FSA years up to the early 1990s. I read photographers simply shot what was in proximity to their homes. One night, desperate to shake the sickness, I said fuck it, grabbed my camera and left. It became a form of detox—every click of the shutter was a way to outpace withdrawal.

Weird prison tattoos, handguns on tables, Suboxone strips, old trailer homes. I wanted to keep a textbook for myself with notes in the margins, almost like a fucked up encyclopedia or something. Those first nights of withdrawal are strange—the body switches between exhaustion and manic surges of drive. I tried to burn time until the sickness passed. In those early years it was easy because my first subjects knew me. Then I started to branch out to real street photography, walking block to block.

There’s a real tenderness to your work. Obvious hardship, but warmth and resilience too. How would you describe your style?
I can explain the process of my technique sort of like this: I investigate to determine what frame/moment I’ll never see again. I try to catch that one piece of light in between a transition of thought, it’s the most authentic.

My style pushes to maintain congruency between intention, free will, and risk, a slippery trio artists usually lose control of. Like a blue marlin, you think it’s hooked until the line snaps.

The warmth is likely pulled from my first memories of opiate usage. Before I got sober, chasing that perfectly manufactured hot tub temperature along my spine was everything. Painkillers uncovered a hidden thermostat wired to my body, a private control over joy and pain. Maybe art is a way for me to feel it again.

You’ve lived in New Mexico for a long time now. How have you seen it change? 
Guns. More guns. The shift isn’t abstract, it’s audible. Automatic rifle fire rattles through the air more often, the sound embedded in daily life. And it’s not just Albuquerque; it’s America’s soundtrack. The rhythm of mass shootings has become background noise, a culture that measures time in gun deaths. 

There have been several high-profile ICE raids and counter-protests in Albuquerque over the last few months. I’m wondering what the impact of the current climate has been on the individuals you work with, and how communities are responding to it? 
ICE is here now in New Mexico. The National Guard rolled in this past summer. Some of the people I photograph barely blinked. Business as usual. For the government, the optics are clean and convenient, but on the ground the suffering doesn’t change. Addiction defeats any deployment. The rot runs through poverty, erosion of family bonds—all controlled by chemical dependency. Troops and federal reinforcements are useless against substance abuse.

You mentioned in a previous interview that often the people you photograph identify as New Mexican before anything else. I’m curious to hear more about why you think that is, and whether that connection has changed—or even strengthened—in light of recent events?
There’s an unwavering connection to statehood here. Families can trace their ancestry back to this exact land as far as the 16th century, further still for Native American communities who’ve been rooted here since long before. New Mexico is stitched with that history, and despite its fractures, most people will tell you the same thing, this place is, and always will be, home.

Zach Gutierrez, who appears in one of the photos you sent over, sadly passed away this summer. Would you be happy to talk about your relationship to him?
In 2019 I read a local story about a 17-year-old charged with first-degree murder. A man walking his dog in Santa Fe was killed, and this kid was out on bail. I wanted to know what life looks like for someone that young, facing the possibility of living inside of a concrete box forever. He always swore he was innocent. I expected a teenager waiting for a murder trial to be in a perpetual state of anxiety. Zachary wasn’t. He played video games, made music, moved through his days like normal. In 2021 he was cleared of that charge. He died in June of this year.

Zachary was a kid on a heavy supply of buprenorphine—like he would take three normal-dose 8 mg/2mg strips a day. He told me about his life as a child-runaway, accepting realities at such a young age. It was certainly unsettling to watch him, this youngster, charge his court ordered ankle monitor like an iPhone. 

The nature of your work, and the pockets of society you focus on, does put you in fairly close proximity to loss of life. How do you deal with that on a personal level?
Several of my subjects are dead now. Street life. Wrapping my head around the fact I’ll never see them again is unbelievable. I photographed a man named Felipe in 2017 and six years later he was shot to death. There’s a coldness to it that I try to dissociate from. Part grief, part regret, part impossible wish that I could move time, step back into that moment, and stop it from happening. That’s the hardest part of this work, you carry their faces, but not their futures.

The photo of Zombie and the photo of the teenager making macaroni are two of my favorites. They feel oddly juxtaposed to me—the kid cooking dinner with a pistol in his waistband, and an established drug dealer doing comparatively chill-looking admin in a Motel 6. They kinda reflect aspirations and reality, if you know what I mean. 
Yes, it’s a rhythm of existence. Zombie is a typical shards dealer. I once watched him smoke crystal out of a glass bubble right in front of an Albuquerque police officer with no consequences. He carried himself with this confidence—he knew exactly what he could get away with. I was staring at the ground thinking, holy shit, he’s about to get arrested in seconds. Nothing happened. That’s when I realized how far I was from the reality of the entrenched life of a street addict.

The kid cooking with pistols in his waistband, that’s innocence colliding with survival, childhood and adulthood caught in the same frame. And those extended magazines sticking out. To me they looked absurd, like Lego blocks or power tools at first glance. That strangeness is what makes the image potent, so surreal it becomes ordinary.

You can find more of Frank’s work on Instagram.

The post Inside the Trap Houses of Albuquerque’s ‘War Zone’ appeared first on VICE.

The 90s, as Carroll’s eye-popping new photo collection reminds us, was a decade of mess and life and culture poised on a tantalizing cusp. The X-Files, ‘Girl Power,’ Tamagotchis, and Mr. Blobby vied for the public’s attention alongside solemn newsreel footage about CFC cans, glue-sniffing, and the Srebrenica massacre. It’s defined as much by memories of people dancing in the ruins of the Berlin Wall as it is by the screeching call of dial-up modems.

The London-born, LA-based author, whose Read This if You Want to Take Great Photographs series has sold over a million copies, considers the 90s his “coming-of-age decade.” But his 336-page web of sourced images and reflections is not just nostalgia porn but also a roadmap to the present. “We think everything we’re facing today is new, and that it’s spiraling out of control as the world falls apart,” he tells VICE. “But history repeats. Humans are the same. And we’re going to make the same mistakes and right choices as we’ve always done.”

The book is Carroll’s attempt to make sense of the chaos of the present by charting the creative trends, socio-political shifts, and pop-culture touchpoints that guided us into the new millennium. Ahead of its October release via Thames & Hudson, the author shared some of his broad observations with VICE.

VICE: I recognize this image from Adrienne Salinger’s Teenagers in Their Bedrooms series, which captured American teens from all different backgrounds in their own, self-made environments. What does this snapshot tell us about the 90s?
Henry Carroll: Teenagers are the product of [their surroundings], but they’re also the ones that are going to shape the future. An explosion of media in the 90s meant that people could surround themselves with artifacts that mirrored their identities. This image captures, among other things, a time when creative Black voices in America were starting to have a powerful influence—from Michael Jordan and mainstream hip-hop artists to publications like Ebony.

You describe Berlin as “a hotbed of ecstatic culture” in the book. Why was Germany such an interesting place to be in the 90s in general?
When the Berlin Wall came down in 1989, it signified the end of the Cold War—but also the destruction of a 28-year barrier between Western hedonism and communist repression. The youth, who had been educated on contraband circulating in East Germany, were suddenly able to do what they wanted. They were primed to just go nuts.

If you were young and you wanted to have a party or squat in the middle of the city, there were now all these industrial buildings that had been neglected due to the poor economy in the Cold War. It was like a tectonic movement. Clubs like Berlin’s Tresor sprang up in old banks, factories, and warehouses. There was suddenly this infrastructure for raves and parties, and Berlin became an epicenter for LGBT Europe.

What broad, sweeping 90s trends affected the daily lives of queer people in the West?
During the HIV/AIDS crisis in the 80s, Western leaders like Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher were resistant to addressing the hysteria and discrimination attached to gay men, in particular. But by the mid-90s, even as the death tolls were at their peaks, more treatments were finally starting to come through, and the public was becoming better educated. It wasn’t something you could hide, but it became a part of society that was accepted.

What are we looking at here? Are these fashion commercials or something else?
No, this is KAWS. It’s 90s street art. Banksy’s first work appeared in Bristol in 1997, but at the same time, KAWS was doing something very different [in New York]. He would open up bus shelter posters at night, paint characters on the fashion adverts, and then lock them up again behind the perspex, where they would just sit to become talking points. It wasn’t DKNY doing this—he was co-opting their brand to create something postmodern and new.

How were photographers like Wolfgang Tillmans and Juergen Teller changing visual culture in the 90s?
In the 80s, fashion photography was a polished, high-budget art form of gloss and glam—but we were going into a recession, and so the party was very much over for a little while. This hungry new generation of photographers was coming of age in the 90s, and shooting their friends on the street with point-and-shoot cameras, using a lot of flash, and weaving everything in with them going out and partying. It was a visual language that was a response to their circumstances.

Then, you had this rise in print media with new magazines like Vice and Raygun. Their budgets were pretty tight, but they were determined to establish a new look and attitude, and they naturally elevated that aesthetic and those authentic new creative voices. It was a convergence of economics, frustration, and photography as this accessible, instant means of expression.

Why do these websites look so cool?
Between 1994 and 1997, the number of websites increased from 3,000 to over 1 million. But creators could choose from only 256 background colors—and if you wanted to put a hyperlink in there, it had to be blue, underlined, and in Times New Roman font. Today, we see these typefaces and pixellated backgrounds through this nostalgic lens, but there was really no such thing as ‘web design.’ Websites could only look like that.

And why do these screenshots look so mental? 
This was a kind of online artwork. Mark Napier created his own browser where, as you clicked through websites, they’d layer on top of each other. And so you’d get these juxtapositions of everything from porn sites to CNN. He was seeing this information overload and confusion, and thinking ‘How are we going to deal with this access to everything?’ He caught onto that pretty early. 

One of my favorite parts of the book is the section where you zone in on the prevalence of the blue-sky-and-wispy-clouds motif, found in everything from The Simpsons to the Windows 95 logo. What does it symbolize?
This image represents a lot of those aspects of photography I was talking about before. Youth culture. Shot outside. Zero budget. Fish and chips. But it also encapsulates a motif that was everywhere in the 90s. For Microsoft, the blue sky was a symbol of freedom. But it was also locking us into cubicle culture and sucking us into screens. Books like Infinite Jest and movies like The Truman Show then started using this image more cynically, to critique the illusion of freedom. It was a kind of warning, in a way.

Why do these kids look so vibey?
There was this real cross-exchange of culture and style in the 90s, with technology and video games from Japan colliding with fashion from the West. FRUITS magazine documented that convergence as it was taking place. You can even kind of see that video game influence being weaved into the magazine logo.

Harajuku, in Tokyo, was this photographer’s hunting ground—a place that young people exploring their fashion identity used as a catwalk before the big mainstream brands moved in towards Y2K. If you look at the clothes these kids were wearing, it was a very layered and unique mix of references. And it was this back-and-forth conversation of East and West that was creating this new aesthetic.

Follow James on X @jamesbalmont

The post Y2K Fashion, Digital Overload, Teenage Excess: How the 1990s Created Today appeared first on VICE.

Enter the humble point-and-shoot camera. Some call it the point-and-click camera, although that sounds more like if Microsoft had tried to brand a camera in the ’90s. These two cameras are the best on the market that won’t break the bank.

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Fujifilm

X100VI (opens in a new window)

Available at Adorama

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Buy Now (opens in a new window)

Available at Moment

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Buy Now (opens in a new window)

Available at Walmart

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Buy Now (opens in a new window)

fujifilm x100vi

The Fujifilm X100VI is the point-and-shoot camera to beat. The Leica Q3 43 is a peach of a camera, sure, but it’s also $7,380. At $1,799, the X100VI is far easier on the bank account.

Its high-quality sensor and lens combine to offer vivid, realistic colors and sharply defined images, and the sleek chassis oozes retro appeal. Control freaks and photography degree holders can rejoice at the well-positioned controls to manually set camera settings when they don’t trust the (admittedly, quick and accurate) autofocus.

Many point-and-shoot digital cameras don’t let the shooter take the training wheels off, but the X100VI is a playground for photographers who love to tinker with camera settings.

The catch? The lens, as good as it is, is of a fixed focal length. If you want to zoom in and out, well, you’re going to have to use your legs. Plus, it’s out of stock and hard to find. You may want to consider a Fujifilm X100F if impatience overpowers you.

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Ricoh

GR IV (opens in a new window)

Available at B&H Photo Video

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Available at Adorama

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Buy Now (opens in a new window)

Ricoh GR IV

The successor to the Ricoh GR III, arguably the king of street photography since 2019, the Ricoh GR IV is similarly compact and easy to tuck away into a pocket. Even more so than the Fujifilm X100VI, the GR IV is light and slim.

That also makes it inconspicuous, which is a boon in street photography that hinges upon natural shots, not people realizing they’re being photographed and screwing up their expressions.

Like X100VI, the GR IV has a fixed lens, a 18.3mm f/2.8 model. Forget zoom; your zoom is your legs. Internal storage improves massively from 2GB in the GR III to 53GB in the GR IV, so if you forget your memory card or just don’t want to bother with one, you won’t need to.

The post The 2 Best Point-and-Shoot Cameras That Don’t Cost a Fortune appeared first on VICE.

Over the course of 18 months, friend of VICE and esteemed photographer Yushy Pachnanda went to more than 80 illegal squat raves held in one-off venues across London.

Each party pulled in between 100 and a thousand people, and many of them ended with the fresh-faced attendees getting charged at by screaming riot police. Now, Yushy has gathered all his pictures into a new photobook called Section 63. A reference to the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act of 1994 that was designed to kill these kinds of shenanigans stone dead, the book is exhilarating proof that over 30 years later, the scene lives on, and that bored teenage drug users are still out there sticking it to the fuzz and thus also The Man. 

We called up Yushy to ask him about his adventures, ahead of an exhibition of his Section 63 work at the Farsight Gallery in London, which runs from September 3-9.

VICE: How did the project start?
Yushy Pachnanda: In early 2022, I met some guys at the London 4/20 thing who said they were putting on a rave. They added me to their Telegram channel and I was like, ‘Oh, so these things still exist.’ One day, I took my camera and the rest is history. Getting into one of these warehouses made me trusted enough to start photographing different parties around London.

What are the people who go like—still the same dogs-on-strings drop-outs?
There’s a lot of teenagers who just want to take a pill for the first time, then there’s an older crew, many of whom have quite ‘normal citizen’ jobs—one bloke I met was a school IT consultant. When you hear them speak and find out where they live, you realize quite a few are cosplaying as being more rough and ‘of the culture’ than they really are.

That’s always been the case, I suppose.
Completely. Ages-wise, it ranged from 17 to 50-plus. One promoter brought his mum who set up a tuck shop in a back room, drinking her way through a crate of cider and selling crisps and Fanta to goggle-eyed teenagers.

What about the music?
Drum ‘n’ bass, jungle, Gabba. When it gets to 4 or 5AM they might start playing psytrance or donk for the lols.

What’s the craziest thing you’ve seen at one of these parties? 
Guy Fawkes Night, 2023. This big event with different soundsystems set up across a load of empty warehouses. It was amazing but one warehouse had these massive holes in the ground, like 2 ft deep; I have no idea why. When the music started, a bunch of kids fell into the holes, and then everyone had to create this kind of human daisy chain to pull them out. The hole-people were fucked. As I was watching, all of a sudden there was this huge bang, and we turned round to see a police van had rammed into the warehouse doors. All the rozzers ran in with riot shields, screaming, so a few of the guys started shooting fireworks at the police. When the baton charge started, I took the executive decision to run. They were arresting people very violently. One photographer had his camera seized. I dashed myself over a fence and fell into a deep puddle, then got a bus home. 

Was this a typical police response?
It’s so strange how they operate now. A lot of the time, they just wanna make sure the fire alarms work and then they leave. Other times, they stand outside in riot gear, waiting to snatch people up as soon as they walk out the doors.

“All of a sudden there was this huge bang, and we turned around to see a police van had rammed into the warehouse doors. The rozzers ran in with riot shields, screaming.”

What’s the police’s attitude to the ravers, generally? Do they despise them for being druggy degenerates?
I think they’re quite confused a lot of the time. They’re expecting to find a bunch of crusties but they turn up and the kids are all wearing gold chains and Corteiz and all this expensive gear. 

Were any of the characters you met particularly memorable?
There was a group of lads who cornered me in a ‘chill-out space’—which was like, a side office in some warehouse—and were shouting, ‘You’re a fed. You’ve got a camera and beard. Just admit it and we’ll leave you alone. If not, we’ll do something about it,’ then one of them lifted up his shirt and there was a knife sticking out of his waistband.

How did you get yourself out of that one?
I opened up my Instagram on their phone, and we had mutual followers. They stopped threatening to stab me and were like, ‘Oh, sick, bro, do you wanna take a picture of us now?’

What kind of drugs are people taking at these things? Not to sound like a fed myself.
Lots of balloons—lots of balloons—and plenty of pills and M-kat.

And what are the hot topics of conversation? 
I don’t recall any particularly memorable ones. Plenty of people talking about how if everyone just did a pill, there’d be no world wars. 

In the book, there’s a screenshot of some kind of etiquette list that the organizers send to everyone who’s coming. Can you relay some of the dos and don’ts?
No glass; no balloons; no graffing the building. There’s this big thing about Xanax, because the organizers can test that to see if it’s laced with fentanyl. Don’t be bait on the way there. You’re a teenager entering an industrial park at 11.30PM, it’s suspicious enough without someone hearing you playing donk off your phone. It’s almost like a treasure hunt, finding these spaces. You get given little clues here and there, then get to a train station and see people who are clearly going to a rave—a bunch of kids playing jump-up drum ‘n’ bass off their phone. You speak to them and there’s this sense of camaraderie. You make it to the venue and you’re like, ‘We’ve done this: we’re in it together now. We’re locked in.’

Some of the spaces are first occupied by squatters, who let homeless people in to live there before and then after the party. They’re also good at outing thieves. To get into the main group chat, you get added on Telegram and have a certain period of time to send them a photo of your ID along with a video of you smoking a joint or doing a line. They can use that as leverage if you nick anything, which is kind of scary. They say they do it to fish out undercovers.

Where did you get the photo of the couple kissing in front of the pick n mix stand?
An event at the Everyman cinema in Walthamstow, which had closed down two weeks prior. They’d just left the back doors open.

“To get into the main group chat, you have a certain period of time to send them a video of you doing a line.”

What was the biggest risk you saw the organizers take?
There was one directly opposite the Israeli embassy. It was quite terrifying to see these unmarked cars dotted about the place. One time, there was an event in a bank, then following that these kids put one on in a prison. It’s like they’re constantly dialing up the levels of insanity. 

Is there a financial incentive for promoters?
Some of the more dodgy ones, yes, 100 percent. There’s been times when you get to the warehouse and there are these absolute beefed up, geared up donkeys on the doors, telling you how amazing it is inside and asking for a tenner. Then you walk in and it’s just empty, and before you know it, all the guys you paid have disappeared. 

So there’s no DJ or anything? 
No. You’ll see them two weeks later and they’ll say, ‘Dunno what you’re talking about, mate.’ But when it happens, the kids will just get on their phones and find another party going on in Camden or somewhere. And you’re like, ‘Let’s do it’ and you’re off on another journey.

Catch the launch of SECTION 63 in London on September 4.

Grab your tickets here and the book here.

Don’t be bait.

Follow Yushy on Instagram.

This interview is taken from VICE magazine, v29n2: THE REASONS TO BE CHEERFUL ISSUE. To subscribe to four print issues each year, click here—you’ll need to subscribe by Friday, August 29 to ensure the summer issue is the first one you’re sent.

The post London’s Teenage Ravers Are Still Winding Up Police appeared first on VICE.

Yet while many of these stories result in very real hardship for those living in Iran, there is also a stark difference between the media-portrayed Iran—state machine and political entity—and the geographically fascinating and historically rich stretch of land currently called Iran that is populated by a diverse and culturally complex population of 90 million human beings. And it’s nice to be reminded of that sometimes, via more than just crispy rice recipes on TikTok.

For this reason, we recommend a strong dose of Sina Shiri’s startling photography. Born, raised, and still living in Iran, his off-kilter documentation of the streets of its cities provide a wonderful glimpse into the minor moments of everyday life. His vivid and surreal approach to image-making follows a long Iranian cultural tradition of dancing in the hinterland between truth and reality—deeply mined by filmmakers like Abbas Kiarostami and Jafar Panahi. His photos often seem too strange not to have been staged, yet they are spontaneous works of chance, timing, and persistence.

We caught up with Shiri over email to discuss his life as a photographer in Iran, his relationship with surrealism and humor, and why he’s fascinated by bus stations.

VICE: How did you become a photographer?
Shiri: At 16, I became fascinated with cameras, intrigued by the idea of capturing the world around me in high quality. I took a basic photography class and, at 17, began my career as a photojournalist in the Iranian press. I worked in news agencies for several years, but eventually, other facets of photography caught my interest, and I gradually moved away from photojournalism.

How would you describe your style?
Considering my background in photojournalism, my style was initially shaped by that. However, over time, I have gradually shifted toward exploring the boundary between documentary and staged photography—or, in other words, between realism and imagination. I believe that by navigating these borders, and leaving the viewer uncertain about the nature and approach of the photograph, you can open up new and innovative paths in photography.

What is life like as a photographer in Iran?
It is undeniably challenging. Photography is a difficult profession worldwide, but in Iran, it comes with its own unique set of obstacles. These include numerous restrictions and barriers, many of which stem from societal transformations. Photographers face a restrictive environment shaped by both government pressure and shifting social dynamics.

Street photographers, in particular, encounter significant difficulties. The authorities often do not tolerate their work, and due to the political and social tensions prevalent in Iran, the public has grown less accepting of photographers in recent years. As a result, pursuing street photography here requires a heightened level of personal motivation to overcome these challenges and persist in the craft.

How do you approach photographing strangers on the street?
I make an effort to keep a balanced distance from the people I photograph—not too close, not too far. This helps me stay unobtrusive while still getting the shot I want. I also prefer not to know more about them than what my photo reveals. I like keeping that sense of mystery intact. The ambiguity that the viewer feels when they look at my images is something I experience, too. It’s not just for them—it’s part of my process. By doing this, I create a shared mystery that connects me, the viewer, and the subject in a subtle, meaningful way.

Do you prefer to plan your shots or capture spontaneous moments?
My street photography is often part of a larger project, or, at the very least, guided by a general concept. That said, I consider chance, timing, and spontaneous moments to be integral parts of the process as well.

Tell me about your photo series, The Remains of the Day, from which many of the images featured in this article are taken.
The feelings of alienation and fear of facing a new environment have accompanied me since childhood, as my family and I migrated from a small town to a new place. The transport terminal holds a special significance because it is the first point of encounter with a new city, and it revived those emotions in me once again.

In the faces of the people at the terminal, strangers to me, I saw a mixture of fear and hope. The terminal represents the intersection of anxiety about entering an unfamiliar environment, and the dreams and aspirations for progress in a bigger city. The title is borrowed from Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel of the same name. I chose it because it reflects the complex and conflicting emotions of fear and hope that the series aims to capture.

How would you describe everyday life in Tehran?
It’s a complex and contradictory tapestry: on one hand, it wrestles with considerable political, social, and economic challenges; on the other, it is a society in flux, imbued with its own distinctive energy and vibrancy.

Are there particular cities, towns or neighborhoods that you find yourself consistently drawn to?
I am particularly drawn to my hometown of Manjil in northern Iran. It has always been a place of return for me. A devastating earthquake once struck this small town, claiming many lives—including members of my mother’s family—and I’ve felt a strong connection to the area ever since. Manjil embodies the intersection of life and death, the wild embrace of nature, and the ruins left in the quake’s aftermath. For several years, I’ve been working on a long-term project titled 60 Seconds, which explores both the landscape and the people of this region. I intend to continue documenting Manjil and its stories for many years to come.

What do you think the outside world tends to misunderstand about contemporary Iran?
Many outsiders tend to see contemporary Iran as a one-dimensional place defined only by suffering. While it’s true that we face serious political, economic, and cultural challenges, that’s not the full story. People here also live full lives—we love, laugh, dream, resist, and find joy in everyday moments. Yes, there is hardship, but Iranians are not just victims or symbols of struggle. We are complex individuals with rich, diverse experiences that go far beyond what is often portrayed from the outside.

Some of your photos have a surreal edge, whether it is a man crawling through a traffic barrier or another man sitting in a lion costume with a straight face. Do you aim for humor and surrealism in your work?
I don’t set out to create surreal or humorous images, but I encounter them everywhere in life. The surreal is woven into our daily reality. As one writer asked, “Isn’t the artist’s mind part of reality?” Often, it’s the absurd moments that capture the truest essence of our experience.

What is happening in this photo?
I took this photo during a Nowruz celebration held at a historic building. The man in the image is a Pahlevan—a traditional Iranian strongman who practices Zurkhaneh, an ancient form of physical and spiritual training. Instead of lifting weights, he playfully raised a young boy and held him above his head—both as a display of strength and as a symbolic gesture rooted in pride and tradition.

And what about the image above?
I took this photo in front of Tehran’s City Theater. Two men were deeply absorbed in watching a street performance. I was struck by the focus and intensity in their gaze, and I felt compelled to capture that moment.

I’ve always been curious about how people relate to the spaces they find themselves in—whether they seem to belong, either physically or mentally. The contrast between individuals and their surroundings often fascinates me, and this moment raised quiet questions for me about presence, connection, and how we inhabit public space.

You can find more of Shiri’s work on his website.

The post A Surreal Glimpse Into Everyday Life in Iran appeared first on VICE.

His work delves beneath the pristine artifice of how LA is usually depicted on film, to take the viewer on a culture-hopping ride through neighborhoods, blocks, and intersections; outside corner stores where a man is dressed identically to his car, into bars where gay Latino cowboys hang out, and through the doors of clubs where women grind with hardened male exotic dancers. Through his lens he sees it all, the beauty and the chaos.

We sat down with Maung to chat about what makes LA such a vivid and impulsive city, how he captured some of his most iconic shots, and what effect the recent ICE raids have had on his hometown.

VICE: How did you become a photographer?
Sean Maung: The camera gives me accessibility; I love interaction, I love spontaneity. Even before I took up the camera, I was always down to be spontaneous with people I didn’t know, just having a human connection. The camera was that next step in creating connections with people who may come from a completely different world to me.

What’s your process when you go out shooting for the day?
In a place like LA there’s a different world in every neighborhood. I just hop on my bike or drive somewhere; I follow the vibe. I’ll go down different blocks, intersections, corner stores, anywhere where there’s movement of people. You might hit areas where there’s lots of people and interaction, but then you might hit a block where there’s only one person on the street, but that one person is super powerful. The next thing you know you’re having a very sincere one-on-one interaction with them. Just last week, I was talking to one dude and he took me to his house to show me all his pit bulls in the back, and he’s got a big ass gun in the trash can. This is the kind of shit you miss if you’re shooting quickly.

What do you love most about LA?
I love all the contradictions. People who are really from LA always have a sense of optimism. That sun brings optimism. But there’s also a lot of the city that is very cutthroat. I think that’s why noir was really popular here. When you’re living out here, there’s this element of feeling free to express yourself. I lived in New York for eight years, and it felt more strict in how you could express yourself. In LA, we’ve cut away from those strict ideas about who you are.

There’s cross pollination in all sorts of subcultures. You go to a place like Venice Beach and you realize: Damn, those are some different worlds blurring into one. You don’t have to just be a punk dude or just a skater dude, you can be everything.

I mean, where else on earth would you get a place like Skid Row? Last time I was there, there was a block or two filled with 1970s and 80s style Winnebagos with Venezuelan and Colombian families living in them. They were not your typical Skid Row drug addicts or homeless people. They were playing dominoes and kids were running around next to fires.

Speaking of fires, tell me about your flaming police car shot.
That was probably the first big organized protest after what happened to George Floyd back in 2020. It was in a very upscale, hip neighborhood of LA. If you look in the background, you can see CBS Studios. I think the organizers wanted to have this protest in a more upper-class neighborhood, to show this isn’t only gonna happen in South Central or working-class areas—it’s coming to the doorsteps of predominantly upper-middle-class white people.

As someone whose main experience of LA is via the news I read on my phone, it feels like these ICE raids and subsequent protests have really shaken the city.
Alongside photography, I have a day job where I teach English as a second language to adults. Half of my school has stopped showing up out of fear. It’s actually hard to even talk about it… This is really fucking us all up. You got people who can’t live their lives anymore. They are just going to work, if that, and then going straight home. And we can’t do anything… We can’t do anything.

I was at a store on an obscure little street recently and the guy said: “Yeah, ICE was here two hours ago, and we had to hide some of our employees.” And there is just nothing we can do. On top of that, what they did in MacArthur Park…

So this was on July 7, when around one hundred troops and federal officers descended upon a public park in a historically diverse area of LA, wearing tactical gear, riding horses, and driving in armored vehicles.
Yeah, MacArthur Park is the heart of immigrant culture, almost for the whole of the U.S.—there’s Mexicans, Central Americans, everybody just out there trying to sell things on the street. It’s a different and vibrant world. And they showed up with military vehicles and horses. What the fuck is this? I don’t even know what the right term is: Mental terrorism? Domestic intimidation? But it’s fucked up the whole city.

Was your shot of the two guys boxing in the street taken in MacArthur Park?
Yeah, in the same area. The neighborhood is technically called Westlake; it’s one of the densest neighborhoods in LA, and has a Bronx feel. I was just walking down that hill one day and they were sparring in the middle of the street.

What about the queue of men in tuxedos [at the top of the article]?
It was downtown LA and I just happened to be standing there when this group of actors walked out of a theater. I think they had been extras for a Justin Timberlake video. It was like an assembly line of handsome men, and they had these weird covers on their tuxedos so they wouldn’t get dirty.

That feels very LA to me: fantasy and reality melding together. One second there’s two men boxing in the street, the next there’s a stream of gorgeous extras in pristine suits.
It’s part of the contradiction I was telling you about. If you did a 365 of that street where I saw them, there’s nothing Hollywood about it. And then suddenly this entire production comes marching through.

What’s happening in this photo?
They’re sex workers in South Central. It’s a street called Figueroa—people just call it Fig. All day and all night you have sex workers out there. It’s a very ‘anything goes’ environment, especially later in the evening. The women usually wear colorful outfits. And there’s a lot of people trying to be rappers out there, too. It has a very negative stigma; it’s a very tough neighborhood, but there’s also a lot of energy and boisterous behavior.

On a similar note, what’s going on here?
I had been taking pictures of a female dancer and she texted saying, “Hey, I’m gonna be dancing tonight at this spot. You should come through and take photos.” So I pulled up at this comedy club in Inglewood, and the bouncer says, “You know what you’re about to get into?” And I’m like, “Yeah, of course.” When I go inside, there’s no comedy, and the entire audience is women. Next thing you know, these dudes are coming out wearing these extremely intricate custom-made outfits—one of them was wearing a puffy white jacket with a black scorpion on the back. And they start just killing it. The DJ is playing really dope, predominantly LA gangsta rap, but mixing it really well, hyping up the girls. And these dudes are hard dudes. They aren’t Chippendale dudes—they are tatted up and throwing up gang signs.

I just loved that these women had this spot to just be themselves and really get down because you don’t see that at most strip clubs. The women were really owning the space, and these hyper masculine dudes were busting out down to thongs and booty shorts. I fell in love with it. This is what I look for in LA: these weaves of contradictions.

Find more of Sean Maung’s work on Instagram @olskoolsean

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