Low and Slow
My first time in California — I was in Long Beach, driving down Alamitos Avenue, when I saw a lowrider for the first time. I’ll never forget it. My mind took a mental snapshot: a man in his blue lowrider, cruising slow under tall palm trees. That’s when it hit me, I was definitely not on the East Coast anymore. The city felt like it was speaking a whole new language, one I didn’t know yet but was eager to learn. A new rhythm, a new history, a whole new culture.
From that moment, I wanted to understand what shaped this place. Living here has given me a chance to experience Mexican-American culture up close, through the people, the food, the music, the style… and especially, the cars.
Photographing lowriders has been a window into that world. I’ve talked to owners who told me their cars have been in the family for generations. Hearing their stories made me want to dig deeper into where it all began — to understand the roots behind these moving works of art.
Lowrider culture goes back to the 1940s and ’50s. After World War II, a lot of Mexican-American veterans came home and started buying cars with their military pay. Many had picked up mechanical skills during the war, and they used them to customize their rides, not to race like the hot rod crowd, but to cruise. They’d weigh the cars down in the back, paint them with bold colors and designs that reflected personal and cultural pride. While hot rods were all about being “fast and loud,” lowriders became about being “low and slow.”
Then in 1958, California passed Vehicle Code 24008, making it illegal for a car to sit lower than its rims. Instead of backing down, lowrider owners got creative, adding hydraulic lift systems so they could raise or lower their cars at will. Lawmakers eventually cracked down even harder, banning slow cruising altogether, but the culture never died.
By the 1970s, lowriders had become something much bigger, a symbol of identity, resistance, and community. During the Chicano Movement, clubs began organizing fundraisers, political events, and gatherings to support causes like the United Farm Workers. The cars weren’t just about looks anymore; they were about pride, purpose, and belonging.
Seeing these cars up close, what stands out most is how personal they are. Every detail, the paint, the interior, even the sound system, tells a story. No two are the same. Each one feels like a rolling tribute to family, heritage, and love. The craftsmanship is unreal. These aren’t just cars, they’re living pieces of art that keep a culture alive. The culture here is something that’s passed down, generation to generation. And through my lens, I feel lucky to be able to witness it.
