"Bares de Mala Muerte" is a term that might offend anyone except those that inhabit them. These humble, decaying bars are more than just a place to get a drink or two or three. They are social spaces that agglutinate friends from the small rural communities that will drive to congregate and visit in these places where time slows but doesn't stop. With a documentary approach and a large format camera, I intend to quietly reverence these institutions built by the need for companionship, fun, help, storytelling, and so many great things that happen in these premises. I love the cracked walls, improvised furniture, fading bottles, hand-written signs, marks and humidity. These bars are not glamorous. They are real.

Every worn chair, crooked shelf, and dusty counter is a portrait of time and those people who passed by.

This ongoing body of work does not romanticize poverty nor glorify ruin. It invites viewers to look closely at spaces we are taught to ignore — to find beauty, structure, and humanity where we least expect it.



In a world obsessed with speed, shine, and spectacle, Bares de Mala Muerte offer something else: a slower kind of seeing, rooted in presence, patience, and respect.