I know a spot on the river where a rush of white water collides and falls through large rocks and into a turquoise pool of a billion bubbles. Trout rise in the tail-out sipping their meals from the foam line. They are rarely large but always there. The Trail comes down to the river at this spot, thus it is often fished in vain. On the opposite bank, in a non-descript oak tree hangs a weather worn fishing vest with a sign reading “this was his favorite hole”. It has hung untouched for over a decade.

I’ve really begun to hate everything public: Public busses with their surly drivers and sticky customers, candied seats and bubble-gum rails; libraries made for lounging street lizards and hypocritical intellectual hoods; parks with their goddamned fucking trees - so tall, so arrogant - the fucking sidewalks and public spaces with their skateboarding punks and gruesomely green grass.

As a Mexican-American (very American), I was curious about what the real Mexico was like.

Guadalajara was an introduction to a culture similar to my own upbringing and the experience of a traditional yet cutting-edge city vibe. Some residents say Guadalajara, in Jalisco, is like an adolescent that doesn’t know what it wants to be when it grows up. With a history going back nearly 500 years, Guadalajara should have surpassed adolescence by now. Yet, as growth continues, the urban seams of the city are bursting open even farther.

Publications about women are often published with the intention of defining them. Black Boots Ink is taking a different approach. Each photograph is an individual statement about women and as an essay the images undertake a discussion with the viewer using photographs to create dialogue.