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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.