Desirous of shooting documents from the brothels of Ciudad Juárez, I was stymied by a consistent and aggressively stated no photography edict. While pondering this, I noted that there were men called copas who came through the bars offering to take Polaroids of couples for just a couple of bucks. They were allowed to shoot, so I decided I’d hire them to take pictures of me and whichever prostitute I was sitting with. A man and a woman sitting at a table, drinking and smoking—the same picture taken a million times every day all over the world. For about six weeks, about twice a week I’d cross the river, cruise the Juárez whorehouses, and come home with four or five Polaroids of which I would make black and white copy negatives. In the bars I was nicknamed Señor Copa. For a while it was a lot of fun, and I was loving the photos I was getting, but after a while it became a lonely endeavor, and I stopped. In retrospect, I wish I had made more, and I wish I had kept a journal of my experiences, but by the time I got back home, I was usually drunk.