Some documentary photographers treat their subjects like quarry in the jungle. They stalk them, take their shot and then hang their desiccated representation on a distant sterile wall. The jungle is the Amazon or the barrio, it is all the same. As outsiders, their images lack any humanity and show a visceral disdain for their subjects.

At the art reception, the shooter can be seen prancing around, weaving fanciful tales of his adventures to the spellbound audience. The assembled, saturated by the stench of privilege, sip on wine while esoteric rhythms waft in the background. The photographs remain mute. Surrounded, the captured photographs witness the decadence.