Reynaldo Rivera Is
His Own Leading Lady

Devan Diaz In Conversation with the Photographer of L.A.’s Private Glamour

  • Interview: Devan Diaz
  • Images/Photos Courtesy Of: Reynaldo Rivera and Devan Diaz
  • Illustrations: Skye Oleson-Cormack

Reynaldo Rivera es una gran señora. He prefers to text, but he’ll check his email if I insist. He calls to say hello, but never before noon. Beauty sleep is non-negotiable. Our video chats begin in a blur; his webcam trails the living room in search of the right light. In the background is a collection of books, records, and his own photographs on the walls of his Lincoln Heights home. Laughter carries every story, and the most titillating ones demand clarification: “You won’t include this part, right?”

His grandmother—a self-identified actress who never saw the screen—laid her dreams to rest in 1920s Mexico City. Decades after her pursuit, the Los Angeles-based artist fell in love with silent film—an industry long gone by the time he discovered it. Unable to direct his own movies, he staked his filmic claim through photography. Though his mother would never call herself a writer, Rivera watched her spend hours by Echo Park Lake, unloading onto the page. He saw poetry in her release. Alongside his sister, Herminia, early years were spent travelling along the Southwest: Mexicali, Stockton, Santa Ana, Pasadena. “My first camera was an anchor for stability,” Rivera says,“I liked being able to keep these physical sheets of film.”

Rivera’s L.A. was a hideaway for tinselled runaways, Hollywood was limp by comparison. He flitted across venues like Mugi’s and The Silverlake Lounge of the 80s and 90s, casting his lens like a net. Siouxsie Sioux and Sonic Youth were caught in his vision, and they received the same treatment as the queens he saw performing on stage at The Plaza, or behind-the-scenes at Le Bar. Through Rivera’s eyes, we enter a world with cinematic views of its own construction.

For the past 25 years these photos have lived in boxes. They’ve survived fires, final notices, and evictions. Rivera’s new book, Provisional Notes for a Disappeared City, is as much a reminder as it is a renunciation. These are Rivera’s characters, his leading ladies, disappeared no longer. Published by Semiotext(e), the collection includes over 190 photographs, an introduction by friend and early champion Chris Kraus, a personal essay by Rivera, and an e-mail correspondence with Vaginal Davis.

Over the course of the winter, Rivera and I stay in touch across modes of communication. Through iMessage, we share photos of our families. Over the phone we talk about clothes. I turn my webcam outward to reveal snow in New York, and in exchange, Rivera shows me the sun.

p. 218 Cynthia & Juan, Downtown (1989) "Halloween of 1989. Cynthia and Juan were actually siblings [laughs]. I dated Cynthia for a while. She was so gorgeous. I can hardly remember this night. It's one of the ones I'm glad I have a photo of."

Devan Diaz

Reynaldo Rivera

I’ve been playing Lucha Reyes for the first time in years, it used to be grandmother’s cleaning music. I didn’t know her name until you texted me that video.

Music is the bedrock of everything I’ve ever done. I bought a victrola from a second-hand shop when I was working up north as a teenager. I remember finding Bessy Smith and Billie Holiday. I was a rancho child, I had no idea who they were. All these great women. Edith Piaf. They were like tias, the women who helped raise me. Lucha Reyes, Toña la Negra. They taught me how to suffer, how to cry, how to fall in love. You didn't need an education or any classical training to understand music.

Was this around the time you picked up a camera?

Yes, it took me months to learn it. At first, nothing would come out. I’d get my pictures back and they’d be blank. I continuously asked the employee where I got my film developed for advice. She took the time to explain the camera to me, and what it all meant.

How did you find your light?

It’s very important in silent movies, which was my entry into cinema. Photos were the second best thing to making movies. I’m always looking at the gradation of lighting. You start seeing everything as a set. Everything about photography was expensive, that's why it is such a rich kid's hobby. I didn't have the kind of money to keep buying rolls of film. This helped me learn how to edit, knowing I had a limited number of shots. We were buying milk with bags of pennies. We lived life without thinking of a future. If someone invited us to go somewhere, we'd quit our jobs and take off for three months or a year. There was never anything that could tie us down. We could just as easily get another shitty job. We did a lot of shoplifting [laughs]. I know I shouldn't say that! Can I still go to jail?

No!

Film was hard to steal, they always kept it in the back. That's why I don't have thousands of photos. I've been doing this since '82. You would think I'd have so much more. Granted things got lost in fires over the years, and moving around.

These aren’t just images, they’re physical objects.

That was always the intention, mija. From the beginning. Photography wasn't just a hobby for me. It really fulfilled a need. As necessary as eating, and all the other shit that comes with life. Also, I'm old. When you get to be a certain age you start thinking about longevity. The things you'll leave behind.

p. 93 Ramon Garcia, Monica Canales, Annette, and Christopher Arellano, Echo Park (1995) "That’s my husband, the first one to the right. Boyfriend at the time, he’s eight years younger than me. We were on our way to see this Colombian band, Very be careful. They were so good! I love that band, they’re still around. That was my birthday, and we went to see them perform. We had so much fun. That’s one thing I’ve always known how to do. Enjoy life."

Why’d you start again?

In my teens, 20s, 30s, everything was important. Everybody was my friend. I documented a huge range of people. Now that I'm older, everything has become more singular. I've developed this new interest in portraiture. Capturing the people in my life, and the new people I come across. If you were here I'd take your photo. I've learned that it's these momentary things that matter in the long run. Not the landmark events we give so much importance when we are young.

Do photos replace memories?

No! I remember one time I was like, "I wish I would've gotten to see Etta James before she died! How could I have not seen her?" And then one day I'm flipping through one of my old diaries and I see an entry written while waiting at the Hollywood Bowl with my friends Donald and Cindy, drinking wine, and we're listening to Etta James perform.

But some things are impossible to forget. I remember The Plaza, those shots of the girls backstage, taking mom to see their show. I thought I was showing her something new, and it turns out she already knew the place. She was old friends with this waiter who had always been an asshole to me. After that, he treated me like royalty! She helped him come out of the closet, even wrote a song about him. What I thought was unique to me was actually just this queer continuum.

We’re part of history whether we like it or not.

All those places are gone now. People, too. That's what is hard. Our history got interrupted by AIDS. Imagine where we would be if we'd never lost all these wonderful people of the 80s and 90s. They just got snuffed. In those days it got you fast. If you got it, you were gone in a few months. It was fucking hell. I didn't get to see much of this, even though my second boyfriend died of AIDS. I don't know how I didn't get it. I'm like the black widow. I also wasn't sleeping with very many people, maybe it was my upbringing.

Were you a good girl?

I was a bad girl with lots of fears [laughs]. I was also very sheltered. If you were gay it was kept a secret. I didn't even come out until '83, and AIDS had been going around for three years at that point. TV called it 'gay cancer', and I remember thinking I was gonna get it just for being gay! Have you ever read City of God? The one by the Chicano Writer, Gil Cuadros?
It's his story as a young gay Latino in the Southwest and how living here shapes your gender and sexual identification. It's a really important book for me. Luckily when I came to the U.S., I arrived with a strong mother and these militant Chicano sisters who were all about going against the white man, always screaming “fuck the honkies!” So I never grew up glamorizing or idolizing whiteness. Thank god for my Chicano Power sisters.

I love the polaroid of Herminia in front of the Hollywood sign. It’s one of the only color photographs in the book.

That was a fake fashion shoot we did for LA Weekly. A friend of mine was the fashion editor, and she told me to come up with something. She knew I could use the money. We called this look the "cha cha girls". I love how that photo says we aren’t guests. None of us are illegal here. We're native to this land.

p. 57 Laura, La Plaza (1994) "Laura Leon. She autographed a photo of herself for me, and kissed it with lipstick. I’ll let you have it, text me your address."

p. 189 Performer, Le Bar, (1997) "I don't even know who that was. I remember this was at Le Bar. She was a performer that I didn't really know very well, but her beauty caught me off guard. Doesn't this look like a still from a 60s film? This was my Cindy Sherman moment. Do you know how she has those fake movie still images?"

There are so many private moments of glamour in your book, like the backstage shots of the girls getting ready for the stage.

Those women didn't need anything around them to make an interesting photo. It seems to me that any expression of femininity is always under scrutiny. These were places where they could be free from that. It was everything: the perfume, the mannerisms, the way they spoke. I wanted them to be the leading women of my movies.

Was taking pictures a part of getting ready to go out?

I was always a ready girl. Every day was going out. My look was very important, especially once I came out. I shot out. I remember wearing a 1920s swimsuit with wedges. It was fun to put a look together and go out into the world. I figured I was already the worst thing you could be, a fag, so everything else was secondary. I didn't find out how wrong I was till much later. Pulling a feminine look did not get me any play in West Hollywood. No one would look at me, and I thought I was so cute giving high fashion. I was not trying to be a woman, I just wanted to feel glamorous.

I really miss parties!

We chose this selection of images for the book to tell a story of a people that really made use of this city. That's why we used all these party images. I wanted to portray fully formed people, with a range of emotions. It's a story I crave to see in any media, characters that are expressive and dirty. Like my cousin Tricia, who lived so much life. My sister, my grandmother. What made them amazing wasn't money or achievements. They took what they got, and turned it into a life.

My grandmother left behind an abusive husband and her young children to be an actress in 1920s Mexico City. I hated her as a child, her name was enough to make me shiver. As I got older I found the rest of her life to be so cool. She became a monster, but that's part of the story. A woman who grew up with her told me she was a hooker, which I already knew. She'd throw these legendary parties and invite all the men from the village. Then she'd charge them admission to come into her apartment and dance with them. I guess that's what we'd call a rent party today. My dad had to sleep in the hallway as she tended to her clients. She told them he was her brother. She wasn't a good human being. But her life is such an incredible story. Overcoming poverty, abuse, and public ridicule as a single woman.

p. 73 Grant Krajecki and Tommy Chiffon, Hollywood (1993) "Tommy Chiffon is this gender-bending rockstar of the time. Have you ever seen the movie Hedwig and the Angry Inch? Miss Tommy was sporting that look way before, and she likes to believe that it was stolen from her. I believe it, to be honest. We influenced style in ways we’ve never been credited for."

Does grief ever go away? Or does it become something else?

When you're a sensitive bitch like me, it's hard. There's always a sense of loss. You can never go back. You can never go home. It's a sad thing. I don't feel this as intensely now, time and distance do a lot. I don't let myself go there. Like, right now, I had to hold myself back from going to that place.

There’s a real sense of closeness in these photos.

Most of the people in that book were intimate friends of mine, or of each other. I was never a voyeur in any of these scenarios. The audience can feel like they're there because I was there. I was part of the environment. I was capturing moments I was included in. You can feel it in the work. You can put me in any of these photos. I mean I am in that photo, you just don't see me.

I disagree, I can see you in there.

You know what, I see myself in there too.

Devan Diaz is a writer from Jackson Heights, NY.

  • Interview: Devan Diaz
  • Images/Photos Courtesy Of: Reynaldo Rivera and Devan Diaz
  • Illustrations: Skye Oleson-Cormack
  • Date: April 12th, 2021