I’ve never observed Benedict Brink (b. 1985, Australian) step towards perfection, I get a sense of disdain for anything too clean, or right-angled. People often mistake her for a man because of her name. I think perhaps, it’s also due to this crude-commitment type-way of seeing. Benedict defies any traditions of how an image of a body may be expected to be represented through a female lens — or male lens for that matter — she skews predictability. The power lies in achieving this while the pictures still hold a soft and tender quality. The body becomes a busted sculpture, suspended in air and seen out of the corner of my eye. Is she close, or is the lens long? Regardless, I always feel the touch of skin, or the temperature that day. It’s an interesting push-pull to be met with an immediacy in her images, combined with a distance. Opposing forces attract. She respects the subject, allowing them privacy.

→ Excerpt from the foreword written by filmmaker Kersti Jan Werdal (b. 1987, American).

First edition of 500 copies. Special edition of 25 copies, numbered, in paperboard slipcase, screen printed in white, with signed original print.