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aiess
This isla girl from the tropics is vvvproud to have hiked up to 5030 meters above sea level in Tuni Condoriri in the Cordillera Real of Bolivia.
Since the beginning of the year, we have been developing and exploring a visual narrative on reversing glacial ice loss in Mexico. Much of this time is spent on research and looking through microscopes with whatever little samples we have. I’d never imagine that three months later I would come face-to-face with a glacier. Standing in between the mountains and on the foot of Cabeza de Condor, I am humbled by the sight of Laguna Glaciar Ventanani. Naturally calling for a moment of reflection, this reminds me that our little project has a long way to go but it is moving to the right direction, grounded in its intention.
I am still in disbelief of the fact that I made it all the way up here. That wouldn’t have been possible without @abdon_deviaje and @oscarleonnogales - both who have kept up with my battered lungs and shit knee.🦵🏼Very grateful for this triumph kay kapoy ug lisod pud ug saka. 🏔️
This isla girl from the tropics is vvvproud to have hiked up to 5030 meters above sea level in Tuni Condoriri in the Cordillera Real of Bolivia.
Since the beginning of the year, we have been developing and exploring a visual narrative on reversing glacial ice loss in Mexico. Much of this time is spent on research and looking through microscopes with whatever little samples we have. I’d never imagine that three months later I would come face-to-face with a glacier. Standing in between the mountains and on the foot of Cabeza de Condor, I am humbled by the sight of Laguna Glaciar Ventanani. Naturally calling for a moment of reflection, this reminds me that our little project has a long way to go but it is moving to the right direction, grounded in its intention.
I am still in disbelief of the fact that I made it all the way up here. That wouldn’t have been possible without @abdon_deviaje and @oscarleonnogales - both who have kept up with my battered lungs and shit knee.🦵🏼Very grateful for this triumph kay kapoy ug lisod pud ug saka. 🏔️
This isla girl from the tropics is vvvproud to have hiked up to 5030 meters above sea level in Tuni Condoriri in the Cordillera Real of Bolivia.
Since the beginning of the year, we have been developing and exploring a visual narrative on reversing glacial ice loss in Mexico. Much of this time is spent on research and looking through microscopes with whatever little samples we have. I’d never imagine that three months later I would come face-to-face with a glacier. Standing in between the mountains and on the foot of Cabeza de Condor, I am humbled by the sight of Laguna Glaciar Ventanani. Naturally calling for a moment of reflection, this reminds me that our little project has a long way to go but it is moving to the right direction, grounded in its intention.
I am still in disbelief of the fact that I made it all the way up here. That wouldn’t have been possible without @abdon_deviaje and @oscarleonnogales - both who have kept up with my battered lungs and shit knee.🦵🏼Very grateful for this triumph kay kapoy ug lisod pud ug saka. 🏔️
This isla girl from the tropics is vvvproud to have hiked up to 5030 meters above sea level in Tuni Condoriri in the Cordillera Real of Bolivia.
Since the beginning of the year, we have been developing and exploring a visual narrative on reversing glacial ice loss in Mexico. Much of this time is spent on research and looking through microscopes with whatever little samples we have. I’d never imagine that three months later I would come face-to-face with a glacier. Standing in between the mountains and on the foot of Cabeza de Condor, I am humbled by the sight of Laguna Glaciar Ventanani. Naturally calling for a moment of reflection, this reminds me that our little project has a long way to go but it is moving to the right direction, grounded in its intention.
I am still in disbelief of the fact that I made it all the way up here. That wouldn’t have been possible without @abdon_deviaje and @oscarleonnogales - both who have kept up with my battered lungs and shit knee.🦵🏼Very grateful for this triumph kay kapoy ug lisod pud ug saka. 🏔️
This isla girl from the tropics is vvvproud to have hiked up to 5030 meters above sea level in Tuni Condoriri in the Cordillera Real of Bolivia.
Since the beginning of the year, we have been developing and exploring a visual narrative on reversing glacial ice loss in Mexico. Much of this time is spent on research and looking through microscopes with whatever little samples we have. I’d never imagine that three months later I would come face-to-face with a glacier. Standing in between the mountains and on the foot of Cabeza de Condor, I am humbled by the sight of Laguna Glaciar Ventanani. Naturally calling for a moment of reflection, this reminds me that our little project has a long way to go but it is moving to the right direction, grounded in its intention.
I am still in disbelief of the fact that I made it all the way up here. That wouldn’t have been possible without @abdon_deviaje and @oscarleonnogales - both who have kept up with my battered lungs and shit knee.🦵🏼Very grateful for this triumph kay kapoy ug lisod pud ug saka. 🏔️
This isla girl from the tropics is vvvproud to have hiked up to 5030 meters above sea level in Tuni Condoriri in the Cordillera Real of Bolivia.
Since the beginning of the year, we have been developing and exploring a visual narrative on reversing glacial ice loss in Mexico. Much of this time is spent on research and looking through microscopes with whatever little samples we have. I’d never imagine that three months later I would come face-to-face with a glacier. Standing in between the mountains and on the foot of Cabeza de Condor, I am humbled by the sight of Laguna Glaciar Ventanani. Naturally calling for a moment of reflection, this reminds me that our little project has a long way to go but it is moving to the right direction, grounded in its intention.
I am still in disbelief of the fact that I made it all the way up here. That wouldn’t have been possible without @abdon_deviaje and @oscarleonnogales - both who have kept up with my battered lungs and shit knee.🦵🏼Very grateful for this triumph kay kapoy ug lisod pud ug saka. 🏔️
This isla girl from the tropics is vvvproud to have hiked up to 5030 meters above sea level in Tuni Condoriri in the Cordillera Real of Bolivia.
Since the beginning of the year, we have been developing and exploring a visual narrative on reversing glacial ice loss in Mexico. Much of this time is spent on research and looking through microscopes with whatever little samples we have. I’d never imagine that three months later I would come face-to-face with a glacier. Standing in between the mountains and on the foot of Cabeza de Condor, I am humbled by the sight of Laguna Glaciar Ventanani. Naturally calling for a moment of reflection, this reminds me that our little project has a long way to go but it is moving to the right direction, grounded in its intention.
I am still in disbelief of the fact that I made it all the way up here. That wouldn’t have been possible without @abdon_deviaje and @oscarleonnogales - both who have kept up with my battered lungs and shit knee.🦵🏼Very grateful for this triumph kay kapoy ug lisod pud ug saka. 🏔️
This isla girl from the tropics is vvvproud to have hiked up to 5030 meters above sea level in Tuni Condoriri in the Cordillera Real of Bolivia.
Since the beginning of the year, we have been developing and exploring a visual narrative on reversing glacial ice loss in Mexico. Much of this time is spent on research and looking through microscopes with whatever little samples we have. I’d never imagine that three months later I would come face-to-face with a glacier. Standing in between the mountains and on the foot of Cabeza de Condor, I am humbled by the sight of Laguna Glaciar Ventanani. Naturally calling for a moment of reflection, this reminds me that our little project has a long way to go but it is moving to the right direction, grounded in its intention.
I am still in disbelief of the fact that I made it all the way up here. That wouldn’t have been possible without @abdon_deviaje and @oscarleonnogales - both who have kept up with my battered lungs and shit knee.🦵🏼Very grateful for this triumph kay kapoy ug lisod pud ug saka. 🏔️
One can be two things even if it is anything but.
𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘮 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘮.
Pigment print on linen
150 × 75 cm
(from works in development)
One can be two things even if it is anything but.
𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘮 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘮.
Pigment print on linen
150 × 75 cm
(from works in development)
One can be two things even if it is anything but.
𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘮 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘮.
Pigment print on linen
150 × 75 cm
(from works in development)
One can be two things even if it is anything but.
𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘮 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘮.
Pigment print on linen
150 × 75 cm
(from works in development)
What came from my time with Familia Melquiedes from the Huilloc community in Patacancha, 88 km from Cusco. Not how I expected these photographs to turn out in the bright midday light of the Andean highlands.
I’m reminded that control isn’t the point. Presence is, and I’m staying with it.
Kodak Portra 400
Minolta Hi-Matic AF2
September 2025
#AlumniProject “Tradition in the Hands that Hold the Knife” by Aiess Alonso.
La Matanza de Chivos is a centuries-old tradition in Puebla and Oaxaca, tied to the seasonal preparation of mole de caderas, a stew central to Mixteca identity in Mexico. Once a year, goats are killed, every part is cleaned and sorted, and the broth for the mole begins to take shape through the repetition of shared work.
Labor is communal and not bound to gender. In this matanza, young women carried out the killing, moving between slaughtering goats, preparing organs, caring for children, and sharing conversation. The same hands that hold a child also hold the knife. Brutality and tenderness do not oppose each other here. They exist in the same gesture.
La Matanza is not an isolated ritual. It is inheritance. People do not learn the tradition through instruction but by growing up within it. Children move through the space as naturally as the adults who guide them. A baby goat, walking among cut ears and tools, becomes a symbol of life coexisting with death.
Continuity is lived through proximity and memory. La Matanza reveals how a community sustains tradition through work. Meaning survives through rhythm. And its future moves forward simply by being present.”
📷 Words and photography by Aiess Alonso ( @aiess )
__
Aiess participated in the tuition-free Level 1 course for Central and South America, part of the Visual Journalism Program, Central & South America Level 1 course taught by Monica Allende. Link in bio.
#theviifoundation #educate #program #visualjournalism #studentwork #alumni #documentaryphotography #photoseries
#AlumniProject “Tradition in the Hands that Hold the Knife” by Aiess Alonso.
La Matanza de Chivos is a centuries-old tradition in Puebla and Oaxaca, tied to the seasonal preparation of mole de caderas, a stew central to Mixteca identity in Mexico. Once a year, goats are killed, every part is cleaned and sorted, and the broth for the mole begins to take shape through the repetition of shared work.
Labor is communal and not bound to gender. In this matanza, young women carried out the killing, moving between slaughtering goats, preparing organs, caring for children, and sharing conversation. The same hands that hold a child also hold the knife. Brutality and tenderness do not oppose each other here. They exist in the same gesture.
La Matanza is not an isolated ritual. It is inheritance. People do not learn the tradition through instruction but by growing up within it. Children move through the space as naturally as the adults who guide them. A baby goat, walking among cut ears and tools, becomes a symbol of life coexisting with death.
Continuity is lived through proximity and memory. La Matanza reveals how a community sustains tradition through work. Meaning survives through rhythm. And its future moves forward simply by being present.”
📷 Words and photography by Aiess Alonso ( @aiess )
__
Aiess participated in the tuition-free Level 1 course for Central and South America, part of the Visual Journalism Program, Central & South America Level 1 course taught by Monica Allende. Link in bio.
#theviifoundation #educate #program #visualjournalism #studentwork #alumni #documentaryphotography #photoseries
#AlumniProject “Tradition in the Hands that Hold the Knife” by Aiess Alonso.
La Matanza de Chivos is a centuries-old tradition in Puebla and Oaxaca, tied to the seasonal preparation of mole de caderas, a stew central to Mixteca identity in Mexico. Once a year, goats are killed, every part is cleaned and sorted, and the broth for the mole begins to take shape through the repetition of shared work.
Labor is communal and not bound to gender. In this matanza, young women carried out the killing, moving between slaughtering goats, preparing organs, caring for children, and sharing conversation. The same hands that hold a child also hold the knife. Brutality and tenderness do not oppose each other here. They exist in the same gesture.
La Matanza is not an isolated ritual. It is inheritance. People do not learn the tradition through instruction but by growing up within it. Children move through the space as naturally as the adults who guide them. A baby goat, walking among cut ears and tools, becomes a symbol of life coexisting with death.
Continuity is lived through proximity and memory. La Matanza reveals how a community sustains tradition through work. Meaning survives through rhythm. And its future moves forward simply by being present.”
📷 Words and photography by Aiess Alonso ( @aiess )
__
Aiess participated in the tuition-free Level 1 course for Central and South America, part of the Visual Journalism Program, Central & South America Level 1 course taught by Monica Allende. Link in bio.
#theviifoundation #educate #program #visualjournalism #studentwork #alumni #documentaryphotography #photoseries
#AlumniProject “Tradition in the Hands that Hold the Knife” by Aiess Alonso.
La Matanza de Chivos is a centuries-old tradition in Puebla and Oaxaca, tied to the seasonal preparation of mole de caderas, a stew central to Mixteca identity in Mexico. Once a year, goats are killed, every part is cleaned and sorted, and the broth for the mole begins to take shape through the repetition of shared work.
Labor is communal and not bound to gender. In this matanza, young women carried out the killing, moving between slaughtering goats, preparing organs, caring for children, and sharing conversation. The same hands that hold a child also hold the knife. Brutality and tenderness do not oppose each other here. They exist in the same gesture.
La Matanza is not an isolated ritual. It is inheritance. People do not learn the tradition through instruction but by growing up within it. Children move through the space as naturally as the adults who guide them. A baby goat, walking among cut ears and tools, becomes a symbol of life coexisting with death.
Continuity is lived through proximity and memory. La Matanza reveals how a community sustains tradition through work. Meaning survives through rhythm. And its future moves forward simply by being present.”
📷 Words and photography by Aiess Alonso ( @aiess )
__
Aiess participated in the tuition-free Level 1 course for Central and South America, part of the Visual Journalism Program, Central & South America Level 1 course taught by Monica Allende. Link in bio.
#theviifoundation #educate #program #visualjournalism #studentwork #alumni #documentaryphotography #photoseries
#AlumniProject “Tradition in the Hands that Hold the Knife” by Aiess Alonso.
La Matanza de Chivos is a centuries-old tradition in Puebla and Oaxaca, tied to the seasonal preparation of mole de caderas, a stew central to Mixteca identity in Mexico. Once a year, goats are killed, every part is cleaned and sorted, and the broth for the mole begins to take shape through the repetition of shared work.
Labor is communal and not bound to gender. In this matanza, young women carried out the killing, moving between slaughtering goats, preparing organs, caring for children, and sharing conversation. The same hands that hold a child also hold the knife. Brutality and tenderness do not oppose each other here. They exist in the same gesture.
La Matanza is not an isolated ritual. It is inheritance. People do not learn the tradition through instruction but by growing up within it. Children move through the space as naturally as the adults who guide them. A baby goat, walking among cut ears and tools, becomes a symbol of life coexisting with death.
Continuity is lived through proximity and memory. La Matanza reveals how a community sustains tradition through work. Meaning survives through rhythm. And its future moves forward simply by being present.”
📷 Words and photography by Aiess Alonso ( @aiess )
__
Aiess participated in the tuition-free Level 1 course for Central and South America, part of the Visual Journalism Program, Central & South America Level 1 course taught by Monica Allende. Link in bio.
#theviifoundation #educate #program #visualjournalism #studentwork #alumni #documentaryphotography #photoseries
#AlumniProject “Tradition in the Hands that Hold the Knife” by Aiess Alonso.
La Matanza de Chivos is a centuries-old tradition in Puebla and Oaxaca, tied to the seasonal preparation of mole de caderas, a stew central to Mixteca identity in Mexico. Once a year, goats are killed, every part is cleaned and sorted, and the broth for the mole begins to take shape through the repetition of shared work.
Labor is communal and not bound to gender. In this matanza, young women carried out the killing, moving between slaughtering goats, preparing organs, caring for children, and sharing conversation. The same hands that hold a child also hold the knife. Brutality and tenderness do not oppose each other here. They exist in the same gesture.
La Matanza is not an isolated ritual. It is inheritance. People do not learn the tradition through instruction but by growing up within it. Children move through the space as naturally as the adults who guide them. A baby goat, walking among cut ears and tools, becomes a symbol of life coexisting with death.
Continuity is lived through proximity and memory. La Matanza reveals how a community sustains tradition through work. Meaning survives through rhythm. And its future moves forward simply by being present.”
📷 Words and photography by Aiess Alonso ( @aiess )
__
Aiess participated in the tuition-free Level 1 course for Central and South America, part of the Visual Journalism Program, Central & South America Level 1 course taught by Monica Allende. Link in bio.
#theviifoundation #educate #program #visualjournalism #studentwork #alumni #documentaryphotography #photoseries
I wish to remember that this did not come with a story, but it does.
In the production of this series Nights I Can’t Remember with People I Won’t Forget, I was waiting for the only material left to complete the work. I had limited time in the studio, so I planned each step meticulously, carefully accounting for time and space, even leaving room for error. Ten liters of resin were shipped from Guadalajara to Oaxaca. Days passed. Delays came.
When I finally went to the post office, they told me the truck carrying the delivery had been stopped along the highway and had been detained by the police. (!!!) I would have never guessed, but of courseeeee this happens. There were no papers for its release. No timeline. Just waiting.
Weeks went by. Another shipment. Further delays.
What I thought would unfold slowly collapsed into three days and nights of physical work. Weeks of preparation compressed into urgency. There was no room for doubt. Only for doing.
Yet another lesson in letting go. In accepting that the work would not happen the way I imagined. That sometimes you plan, and Murphy still gets in the way. But you make it work because you want it enough. That’s that.
Big love to @timinthekitchen for the Oaxaca artist residency and to @mauroalejandrozamora for the fun passage back to the big city.
Now it’s time for some music.
I wish to remember that this did not come with a story, but it does.
In the production of this series Nights I Can’t Remember with People I Won’t Forget, I was waiting for the only material left to complete the work. I had limited time in the studio, so I planned each step meticulously, carefully accounting for time and space, even leaving room for error. Ten liters of resin were shipped from Guadalajara to Oaxaca. Days passed. Delays came.
When I finally went to the post office, they told me the truck carrying the delivery had been stopped along the highway and had been detained by the police. (!!!) I would have never guessed, but of courseeeee this happens. There were no papers for its release. No timeline. Just waiting.
Weeks went by. Another shipment. Further delays.
What I thought would unfold slowly collapsed into three days and nights of physical work. Weeks of preparation compressed into urgency. There was no room for doubt. Only for doing.
Yet another lesson in letting go. In accepting that the work would not happen the way I imagined. That sometimes you plan, and Murphy still gets in the way. But you make it work because you want it enough. That’s that.
Big love to @timinthekitchen for the Oaxaca artist residency and to @mauroalejandrozamora for the fun passage back to the big city.
Now it’s time for some music.
I wish to remember that this did not come with a story, but it does.
In the production of this series Nights I Can’t Remember with People I Won’t Forget, I was waiting for the only material left to complete the work. I had limited time in the studio, so I planned each step meticulously, carefully accounting for time and space, even leaving room for error. Ten liters of resin were shipped from Guadalajara to Oaxaca. Days passed. Delays came.
When I finally went to the post office, they told me the truck carrying the delivery had been stopped along the highway and had been detained by the police. (!!!) I would have never guessed, but of courseeeee this happens. There were no papers for its release. No timeline. Just waiting.
Weeks went by. Another shipment. Further delays.
What I thought would unfold slowly collapsed into three days and nights of physical work. Weeks of preparation compressed into urgency. There was no room for doubt. Only for doing.
Yet another lesson in letting go. In accepting that the work would not happen the way I imagined. That sometimes you plan, and Murphy still gets in the way. But you make it work because you want it enough. That’s that.
Big love to @timinthekitchen for the Oaxaca artist residency and to @mauroalejandrozamora for the fun passage back to the big city.
Now it’s time for some music.
Between Skin and Flesh
Archival pigment print on linen
30 × 40 cm
2026
(extractions from work in progress Where I’ve Been)
Between Skin and Flesh
Archival pigment print on linen
30 × 40 cm
2026
(extractions from work in progress Where I’ve Been)
Between Skin and Flesh
Archival pigment print on linen
30 × 40 cm
2026
(extractions from work in progress Where I’ve Been)
A day riding through Pampas de Maras with Kayalkee, guided by Sr. Acurio and Chupa 🐕, in the Sacred Valley. One of the year’s quiet highlights.
On a horse, in the mountains, is where I want to be. I always work my way to it. 🐎
September 2025
A day riding through Pampas de Maras with Kayalkee, guided by Sr. Acurio and Chupa 🐕, in the Sacred Valley. One of the year’s quiet highlights.
On a horse, in the mountains, is where I want to be. I always work my way to it. 🐎
September 2025
A day riding through Pampas de Maras with Kayalkee, guided by Sr. Acurio and Chupa 🐕, in the Sacred Valley. One of the year’s quiet highlights.
On a horse, in the mountains, is where I want to be. I always work my way to it. 🐎
September 2025
A day riding through Pampas de Maras with Kayalkee, guided by Sr. Acurio and Chupa 🐕, in the Sacred Valley. One of the year’s quiet highlights.
On a horse, in the mountains, is where I want to be. I always work my way to it. 🐎
September 2025
A day riding through Pampas de Maras with Kayalkee, guided by Sr. Acurio and Chupa 🐕, in the Sacred Valley. One of the year’s quiet highlights.
On a horse, in the mountains, is where I want to be. I always work my way to it. 🐎
September 2025
A day riding through Pampas de Maras with Kayalkee, guided by Sr. Acurio and Chupa 🐕, in the Sacred Valley. One of the year’s quiet highlights.
On a horse, in the mountains, is where I want to be. I always work my way to it. 🐎
September 2025
A day riding through Pampas de Maras with Kayalkee, guided by Sr. Acurio and Chupa 🐕, in the Sacred Valley. One of the year’s quiet highlights.
On a horse, in the mountains, is where I want to be. I always work my way to it. 🐎
September 2025
A day riding through Pampas de Maras with Kayalkee, guided by Sr. Acurio and Chupa 🐕, in the Sacred Valley. One of the year’s quiet highlights.
On a horse, in the mountains, is where I want to be. I always work my way to it. 🐎
September 2025
A day riding through Pampas de Maras with Kayalkee, guided by Sr. Acurio and Chupa 🐕, in the Sacred Valley. One of the year’s quiet highlights.
On a horse, in the mountains, is where I want to be. I always work my way to it. 🐎
September 2025
A day riding through Pampas de Maras with Kayalkee, guided by Sr. Acurio and Chupa 🐕, in the Sacred Valley. One of the year’s quiet highlights.
On a horse, in the mountains, is where I want to be. I always work my way to it. 🐎
September 2025
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Three months before the military coup in Myanmar, I worked as an international observer during the country’s 2020 General Elections. After election night, our interpreter and I tested positive for COVID at a checkpoint crossing back to Yangon. We were held at the border for hours before being escorted to a government quarantine facility. I was the first foreign national publicly reported to have contracted the virus.
The days melted into each other. For an hour each morning, sunlight would slip through the one window in the laundry area - our only reminder of the world outside. There was nothing quite like that patch of sun and warmth hitting our skins.
I documented our stay with a camera phone and a filter, creating images of hot neon contrasts reminiscent of thermal imaging, mirroring the feverish intensity of quarantine and the political climate.
We didn’t know it then, but those days would mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. It’s been five years. Here are some screenshots that tell a bit of that story.
We Will Be Here For a While
November 2020
Earlier this year, I returned to Tawi-Tawi, the southernmost province of the Philippines, to take on my first self-assigned documentary photography project. I spent time at the Saturday barter market in Panglima Sugala, where coastal Badjao fisherfolk and inland Tausug farmers continue to trade goods without money. These images capture one of the world’s few remaining barter economies.
The project also became a way to reflect on how barter survives - from its pre-Hispanic roots in Mexico to places like Sudan, where conflict has disrupted formal markets.
These photographs are part of the series At the Edge of the Philippines, Barter Still Thrives.
Earlier this year, I returned to Tawi-Tawi, the southernmost province of the Philippines, to take on my first self-assigned documentary photography project. I spent time at the Saturday barter market in Panglima Sugala, where coastal Badjao fisherfolk and inland Tausug farmers continue to trade goods without money. These images capture one of the world’s few remaining barter economies.
The project also became a way to reflect on how barter survives - from its pre-Hispanic roots in Mexico to places like Sudan, where conflict has disrupted formal markets.
These photographs are part of the series At the Edge of the Philippines, Barter Still Thrives.
Earlier this year, I returned to Tawi-Tawi, the southernmost province of the Philippines, to take on my first self-assigned documentary photography project. I spent time at the Saturday barter market in Panglima Sugala, where coastal Badjao fisherfolk and inland Tausug farmers continue to trade goods without money. These images capture one of the world’s few remaining barter economies.
The project also became a way to reflect on how barter survives - from its pre-Hispanic roots in Mexico to places like Sudan, where conflict has disrupted formal markets.
These photographs are part of the series At the Edge of the Philippines, Barter Still Thrives.
Between Skin and Flesh
Archival pigment print on linen
150 × 60 cm
2025
(extractions from work in progress Where I’ve Been)
Between Skin and Flesh
Archival pigment print on linen
150 × 60 cm
2025
(extractions from work in progress Where I’ve Been)
Between Skin and Flesh
Archival pigment print on linen
150 × 60 cm
2025
(extractions from work in progress Where I’ve Been)
Between Skin and Flesh
Archival pigment print on linen
150 × 60 cm
2025
(extractions from work in progress Where I’ve Been)
In La Matanza de Chivo, a centuries-old tradition in Oaxaca and Puebla, Mexico, goats are slaughtered for the seasonal preparation of mole de caderas. Here, young women carried out the killing. They moved between slaughtering, preparing organs, caring for children, and sharing conversation. In the kitchen, women from older generations seasoned the broth from memory, guiding the transformation of meat into mole. Brutality and tenderness coexist within the same space. The same hands that hold a baby also hold the knife. Their labor reveals how tradition endures not only through ritual, but through women’s strength, knowledge, and presence.
On International Women’s Day (also tomorrow and all the days), honoring women who sustain the rhythms of everyday life.
From “Tradition in the Hands that Hold the Knife.” This story was developed and produced in the @viifoundation VII Foundation Visual Journalism Program, Central and South America Level 1, led by Monica Allede @monica.allende 🩶
In La Matanza de Chivo, a centuries-old tradition in Oaxaca and Puebla, Mexico, goats are slaughtered for the seasonal preparation of mole de caderas. Here, young women carried out the killing. They moved between slaughtering, preparing organs, caring for children, and sharing conversation. In the kitchen, women from older generations seasoned the broth from memory, guiding the transformation of meat into mole. Brutality and tenderness coexist within the same space. The same hands that hold a baby also hold the knife. Their labor reveals how tradition endures not only through ritual, but through women’s strength, knowledge, and presence.
On International Women’s Day (also tomorrow and all the days), honoring women who sustain the rhythms of everyday life.
From “Tradition in the Hands that Hold the Knife.” This story was developed and produced in the @viifoundation VII Foundation Visual Journalism Program, Central and South America Level 1, led by Monica Allede @monica.allende 🩶
In La Matanza de Chivo, a centuries-old tradition in Oaxaca and Puebla, Mexico, goats are slaughtered for the seasonal preparation of mole de caderas. Here, young women carried out the killing. They moved between slaughtering, preparing organs, caring for children, and sharing conversation. In the kitchen, women from older generations seasoned the broth from memory, guiding the transformation of meat into mole. Brutality and tenderness coexist within the same space. The same hands that hold a baby also hold the knife. Their labor reveals how tradition endures not only through ritual, but through women’s strength, knowledge, and presence.
On International Women’s Day (also tomorrow and all the days), honoring women who sustain the rhythms of everyday life.
From “Tradition in the Hands that Hold the Knife.” This story was developed and produced in the @viifoundation VII Foundation Visual Journalism Program, Central and South America Level 1, led by Monica Allede @monica.allende 🩶
In La Matanza de Chivo, a centuries-old tradition in Oaxaca and Puebla, Mexico, goats are slaughtered for the seasonal preparation of mole de caderas. Here, young women carried out the killing. They moved between slaughtering, preparing organs, caring for children, and sharing conversation. In the kitchen, women from older generations seasoned the broth from memory, guiding the transformation of meat into mole. Brutality and tenderness coexist within the same space. The same hands that hold a baby also hold the knife. Their labor reveals how tradition endures not only through ritual, but through women’s strength, knowledge, and presence.
On International Women’s Day (also tomorrow and all the days), honoring women who sustain the rhythms of everyday life.
From “Tradition in the Hands that Hold the Knife.” This story was developed and produced in the @viifoundation VII Foundation Visual Journalism Program, Central and South America Level 1, led by Monica Allede @monica.allende 🩶
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