I work as a photojournalist and YouTuber. Over the last six years, I've focused on migration and conflict in the Americas and Eastern Europe. Recently, I started documenting my field experiences on a YouTube channel called Through the Glass. Essentially, I travel to fascinating locations, interact with locals, and capture images using one of my 35mm film cameras. One of the photos I took was in Ecuador’s Volcano district for another video (Portra 400). This past December, I visited Michoacán, Mexico—a place I had explored years prior while working on a long-term migration project—to photograph everyday life in a region dominated by organized crime. My intention was to spend a few days with a family along the coast before heading into the hills to photograph a large wedding, where I anticipated a significant presence from the cartel.
However, I encountered a challenge: I had nearly exhausted my supply of 35mm film during a prior shoot. By the time I arrived in Michoacán, I was left with only half a roll of Kentmere 400 and a Fuji Instax Mini 12 that I had bought in Mexico City as a gift for my girlfriend. I had never used instant film before and definitely hadn’t planned on using that camera myself.
Shortly after my arrival, I quickly used up the remaining Kentmere film at the beach. This meant I was left with just the Instax Mini—not the perfect choice for photographing the macho, gun-toting locals in Michoacán. I spent the next couple of days testing it carefully, trying to familiarize myself with its quirks without wasting too many shots. It proved to be a challenging camera: it didn’t capture much light (an issue for the nighttime wedding), and its 35mm equivalent focal length was significantly tighter than my usual preference.
On my first day in Michoacán, I rapidly depleted the remaining 35mm film (Kentmere Pan 400).
When the night of the wedding came, we packed into pickup trucks and drove three hours into the mountains. By the time we arrived, it was completely dark. In a wooded clearing, trucks and dirt bikes encircled an open-air rodeo arena illuminated by floodlights. As we entered, we walked past a row of new Tacomas and F-150s—symbols of status in rural Mexico—where young men in tactical gear stood with radios and assault rifles. My usually relaxed hosts suddenly appeared tense.
“We need to get permission for you to take photos,” one mentioned. “There are some important people here.”
We trekked for three hours to reach the wedding deep in the hills. I turned off my GoPro and followed them to a table where about a dozen men in cowboy hats were sipping imported whiskey. My hosts initiated the conversation. After a brief discussion, the men granted their approval—with one condition: “Just don’t photograph this table. There are people here who don’t want to be seen… you know what I mean.”
That seemingly straightforward rule quickly became complicated. The event was lively—people were constantly on the move. Avoiding "the table" didn’t ensure that I wouldn't inadvertently capture the wrong individuals. Additionally, nearly everyone was armed—not just the cartel members, but also the peaceful farmers. Guns are simply part of the culture there.
Then there was the matter of the camera itself. I feared the Instax would attract unwanted attention. It resembled a toy—a toy aimed at young women and girls—not exactly the kind of equipment that exudes confidence or discretion at such an event.
Ultimately, though, I decided to take the plunge. I stepped into the heart of the dance floor and started acting like the wedding photographer, toy camera in hand.
Before long, I heard the very thing I had feared: “Hey! Stop taking photos! Don’t take photos here!”
For the full story and to see what unfolded next, please check out the complete video!
Last December, I journeyed to Michoacán, Mexico, a location I had previously visited years ago for a long-term project focused on migration. My goal was to capture daily life in an area dominated by organized crime. I intended to stay a few days with a family I’m familiar with along the coast before moving into the hills to document a large wedding, where I anticipated a significant cartel presence.