Hola, queridos amigos — welcome back to Sombra Y Cultura. I’m really glad you’re here with me today.

In our continuing story of photographers who have shaped the visual memory of Latin America, we arrive at a figure whose life stands at the crossroads of history, politics, art, and conscience.

His name was Luis Rodrigo Moya Moreno, but most people simply know him as Rodrigo Moya. He was born on April 10, 1934 in Medellín, Colombia, to a Mexican father and Colombian mother — a beginning that already set the stage for a life lived between cultures and languages.

By the time of his passing on July 30, 2025, at the age of 91, Moya had become one of the most important voices of Latin American documentary photography, a photographer remembered for his integrity, his humanity, and his refusal to shy away from difficult truths.

Today, we’re going to walk through his life —not just the milestones, but the stories that defined him, the images that made his work unforgettable, and the legacy he leaves behind.

Rodrigo Moya’s story began not with a camera in hand, but with theater and storytelling.

His father — a Mexican set designer — was touring with a theater company when he met Moya’s mother in Colombia. The couple lived there briefly before returning to Mexico when Rodrigo was just two years old, settling in a country that would become his home and the primary canvas for his work.

Growing up in Mexico City, Moya was immersed in a vibrant cultural landscape. He attended a school run by Spanish exiles, where art, history, and critical thought were everyday companions. While he briefly studied engineering at the National Autonomous University of Mexico, something else was pulling him — the power of photography to question rather than decorate.

A friend introduced him to Colombian photographer Guillermo Angulo, and that encounter would pivot his life. Moya started as Angulo’s assistant and, when Angulo traveled abroad, took over his duties at Impacto, a Mexican magazine — marking the beginning of his photographic career.

From the mid-1950s through the late 1960s, Rodrigo Moya worked as a photojournalist — first with magazines like Impacto, and later publishing in Sucesos, Siempre!, El Espectador, and more. His work took him through Mexico and across Latin America, to Panama, Guatemala, Venezuela, Haiti, and Cuba, capturing not just events but moments of human complexity.

He wasn’t content to stay on the margins of life. When he photographed strikes in Mexico City or guerrilla fighters in Venezuela, he didn’t just point his lens — he entered those spaces. He captured the faces of people on the move, on the margins, and often in moments of unrest or transition.

One of his most iconic series came from Cuba in 1964, where he photographed Ernesto “Che” Guevara — not as myth, not simply as symbol, but in moments that feel candid, reflective, almost human in their solitude. (if you want to view Rodrigo's work, click here to view his work)

And on a very different but equally unforgettable note, he made portraits of Gabriel García Márquez — even capturing an image of the Nobel-winning author with a black eye after an unexpected incident involving a fellow writer and friend. Moya held onto that negative for more than 30 years before publishing it, a reminder that photography can pause history in its tracks. (that portrait can be seen here)

Rodrigo Moya’s photography isn’t comfortable because it didn’t flinch from conflict or contradiction.

In the 1950s and ’60s, Latin America was a place of rapid social change —with revolutions, student movements, labor disputes, and political unrest shaping the fabric of everyday life. Moya’s camera wasn’t just a tool — it was a window into that world.

He documented:

·       Social inequalities in Mexico’s cities and countryside

·       Armed conflicts and guerrilla activities in Guatemala and Venezuela

·       The U.S. invasion of the Dominican Republic in 1965 — making him one of the only Latin American photographers present on the ground for that event

·       Everyday life in rural and urban spaces that often went undocumented in mainstream media

These images were not flashy. They weren’t staged. They were honest, sometimes stark, and always human.

Yet as the 1960s wore on, Moya grew disillusioned with photojournalism — not with photography itself, but with the conditions of the press, political pressures, and how narratives could be manipulated. In 1968, he made a bold decision: he left professional photojournalism.

But Moya didn’t leave storytelling behind — he simply shifted its focus.

He founded and edited a magazine called Técnica Pesquera, dedicated to fishing, maritime culture, and the sea — a publication he would run for 22 years. Even in a new subject, his eye remained rooted in humanity: the lives shaped by water, by labor, by place.

Later, after confronting illness and long periods of reflection, he returned to his photographic archive — tens of thousands of negatives stored away, waiting to be seen again. What had once been a snapshot of a turbulent era became a treasure trove of cultural memory.

In 2004, Moya brought new life to his archive with the publication of a collection titled Foto Insurrecta, which sparked renewed attention from galleries and photographers worldwide.

His work has since been exhibited internationally, from Mexico to the United States and Europe, and preserved in major collections such as the Wittliff Collections at Texas State University, ensuring that these moments remain part of visual history.

Rodrigo Moya’s life shows us that photography isn’t just art — it’s memory.

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My Final Thoughts

When I think about Rodrigo Moya, what stays with me is his restless curiosity — the kind that drove him to leave engineering and take up a camera instead, and the kind that made him chase stories even when the world tried to look away.

He didn’t just photograph history — he participated in it.
He stood with the people, not above them.
His lens wasn’t a pedestal — it was a bridge.

Moya’s work challenges us to look beyond headlines and into the textures of life — the moments when people live, struggle, celebrate, and persist.

That to me, is photographic courage.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for spending this time with me today.

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Whether you’re long-time listener or joining us today for the first time — I’m grateful.

Thank you for listening, for caring, and for learning with me.
I’ll see you in the next episode.