This was in San Francisco, in 1987. A bunch of kids were camped out in the Riviera Hotel - boy hustlers and their sugar daddy. One boy, Tank, showed us his gun. 'It's not loaded,' he said. He pointed the gun to his head, then out the window, and then to the ceiling. When the gun was pointed to the ceiling, he pulled the trigger and it went off. The gun was loaded after all.

There are many images which I miss on purpose. I've done too many of them before and photographing them again doesn't change the world, or me.

I use my intuition. I tell my students: use your brains, but also use another part of yourself.

Every single immigrant is part of a larger history that needs to be communicated in all its ambivalences and complexities.

The photograph is kind of a proof - a proof that I actually met these people, that they actually have lives, and that they're worth considering.

This was in San Francisco, in 1987. A bunch of kids were camped out in the Riviera Hotel - boy hustlers and their sugar daddy. One boy, Tank, showed us his gun. 'It's not loaded,' he said. He pointed the gun to his head, then out the window, and then to the ceiling. When the gun was pointed to the ceiling, he pulled the trigger and it went off. The gun was loaded after all.

My only agenda is to bring attention to otherwise ignored and shunned lives.