Thomas Morgan was interviewed for the fourth (and final) edition of the Contrast publication. You can find the online exhibition version of the publication here.
You described photography as a ‘quiet observance’. How do you create that stillness in a fast-paced fast moving city like Los Angeles?
Photography is a solitary, often solemn pursuit. If you’re not photographing people, you’re alone. You have conversations with yourself as you seek out an image in the field. You reason and critique yourself in the moment. You quietly observe and try not to draw attention to yourself. I used to rush through my shooting thinking I needed more shots in order to get the one shot, but that philosophy goes in stark contrast to the art as a whole; photography–even digital–forces us to slow down, get into a natural rhythm, and in doing so arrive at a quiet observance of the moment. And each image coming out of these moments is how I felt at the time. Maybe it’s not so much stillness of a city street that’s important, rather the textures beneath it. And if you can arrive at that zen, you’re seeing the seemingly unobserved human world. 🙂
When you talk about ‘transcending history’ in the moment of capturing an image; what does that look like practically when you’re in the field?
All history is local, and we’re all just passing through. And Los Angeles in particular is a pass-through place–for many. Each moment behind the lens while framing up a shot, whether it be a street photography exercise or a more composed, rehearsed moment in which a landscape is rendered, is a nod to anyone who has ever walked these streets or driven on its freeways. You can’t help but notice that. Strangely, I also think, because it always feels like it’s sunny and 72 degrees, that somehow time stands still. Los Angeles as we know–the so-called City of Tomorrow–came to be in a relatively short time. There was so much growth in the early 20th Century that it now looks like it’s a time capsule. And so, traversing the city as I do, I can easily create captures that feel like they’re from another time. That’s what I mean by transcending.
You mention that you often wonder about who might’ve stood in the same spot before you. Has you ever had a moment where you felt a strong connection to a past presence and can you share this?
I went out to capture some night photography in downtown L.A. and found myself at El Pueblo de Los Angeles. This is the original town square near Olivera Street, a kind of living museum. It was Dias de las Muertos, Day of the Dead. There were dozens of local Native American and Mexican people doing a ceremonial dance in the square to a drum beat. They were dressed in what I assume was indigenous attire of fronds, feathers, and makeup. And instead of trying to frame up a shot, I simply took in the moment. I wanted to hear the chant, smell the incense, and watch the rhythmic dance. Los Angeles was effectively founded in that location nearly three hundred years ago, when barely 13 colonies made up the United States. On the maps it was called Alta California and still part of Mexico. In this moment, as a total outsider, I stood both apart and among the other Angelenos who gathered there that night. It was awesome.
You mentioned that everyday you see something new. How do you decide when to document something or just experiencing it?
You can do both, and I often do; I try to bring a camera with me everywhere I go. After rattling off several shots, I often pause and take in the scene. Depending on the time of year and time of day, the view can be breathtaking. Or depressing as hell, like some of the side streets downtown.
If you could photograph Los Angeles fifty years from now- what part of today’s city would you hope still exist?
I hope there is still a clear delineation between the urban areas and open space. This is one of the many features that makes L.A. unique. It doesn’t take long to drop into a canyon and into what feels like the silence of the past. On the other hand, I hope Venice and the South Bay beach communities stay interesting and quirky. Keep it weird!
In City of Angels (2025) you mentioned the ‘afternoon light stretching shadows’ across Hollywood. How do you approach working with the light in that moment?
As the sun was setting, I was patiently waiting for the inevitable lightburst to break through the post-storm clouds, which would set off the stretched-out shadows across the city. I had a sense that during editing I could play with dodging and burning techniques to emphasize this. I think the result is uniquely Los Angeles: a city filled with contrasts, the backdrop of which is the heroic skyline that has changed and grown so much in the past 30 years.
Do you ever feel like you’re capturing a version of Los Angeles that is already disappearing?
That’s the thing with L.A. these days: it’s a constantly evolving place, it seems, and yet manages to stay the same. There are neighborhoods that seemingly will never change. To wit, look at Los Feliz, which pretty much hasn’t changed, apart from whichever rockstar or a-list hipster currently haunts the place, in nearly a hundred years; some of those streets could appear in some noir movie from the 1940s (and probably did). It would be a shame for Los Angeles to lose that identity.
For Flowers from a Stranger (2025), were you imagining a specific story behind the window and the person who had placed the flowers there?
I’m a romantic at heart, so while training my lens on the building, happened to see the vase in the window. Immediately I imagined the would-be romance–either triumphant or tragic. There was indeed a duality of the moment: this singular expression in a half-open window of what appeared to be an apartment in downtown Los Angeles, on a Sunday morning. I wasn’t looking for anyone to pass by the window, and no one did, which made it even more romantic. Perhaps the lovers were entwined or maybe they were talking in hushed tones to one another on the phone. Or maybe it was the opposite: broken hearts healing, looking for answers, at the beginnings of another Sunday. Ever the optimist and having been a giver of bouquets, I like to think they settled on falling in love, because that’s what window sills are for.