The Core - Print Collection
“All I’ve tried to understand about love, life, and loss lives in these nine works. They are my core."
A series of 9 images representing The Core of Jacob’s work now collected in a box.
Edition of 20 + 2 ap
Box: Deep Black cloth bound with engraved glossy lettering, overall dimensions 25.8 x 25.8 x 3cm
Print measure 240 × 240 mm image size 160mm x 220 mm
Prices may vary according to the number of sold collection boxes.
“All I’ve tried to understand about love, life, and loss lives in these nine works. They are my core."
A series of 9 images representing The Core of Jacob’s work now collected in a box.
Edition of 20 + 2 ap
Box: Deep Black cloth bound with engraved glossy lettering, overall dimensions 25.8 x 25.8 x 3cm
Print measure 240 × 240 mm image size 160mm x 220 mm
Prices may vary according to the number of sold collection boxes.
“All I’ve tried to understand about love, life, and loss lives in these nine works. They are my core."
A series of 9 images representing The Core of Jacob’s work now collected in a box.
Edition of 20 + 2 ap
Box: Deep Black cloth bound with engraved glossy lettering, overall dimensions 25.8 x 25.8 x 3cm
Print measure 240 × 240 mm image size 160mm x 220 mm
Prices may vary according to the number of sold collection boxes.
Drifting Love, Tokyo
I cross a bridge in Tokyo and look down
no, it can’t be real.
Two people in a small boat, floating in the middle of somewhere or nowhere.
They’re together, but looking away.
Close enough to touch, yet each held in their own thoughts.
Is this what love can look like?
Not lost but not anchored either.
Maybe this is a kind of intimacy? That lets silence exist between two people, reminding us that love doesn’t always move in one direction.
Martin and Pernille, Copenhagen
I meet Martin and Pernille in their room in Copenhagen.
The walls are warm, and their bodies are quiet. Quiet - but not empty.
There’s trust in the silence. They each have their body, but they move with the same rhythm, resting in each other.
Their skin speaks - without demand.
Here, love is not a smile.It’s weight. Closeness. Necessity.
Xiao, Beijing.
It’s not about photography, a legend once told me. And I think he was right. It’s about entering the inner space of someone - not to observe, but to feel what the person feels.
This image from Beijing holds that space. A man and a woman. Their bodies tangled in sleep or longing - or both.
His eyes are open, but not looking at her. She’s turned away, buried in him. Love. Or the absence of it.
Twins, Moscow.
They grow side by side, like mirrors that almost touch. Between them, a membrane. I was born with a twin. Three minutes apart. A and B. And for years, it felt like we lived on either side of the same skin. Separate but never truly a part. We were one before we knew what it meant to be two. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to this image of the twins from Moscow - two young women, so alike it’s almost unsettling. And yet, each holds something private, something just beyond the other’s reach.
Cat Man, Tokyo.
Every day, I bring my camera to the streets of Tokyo. It’s not just to take pictures - it’s a tool to create contact, to build proximity. I’m tired of watching life from far away. I need to get closer - to feel people, to smell them.
In Ueno Park, a man appears with his cat. He lives in a tent. I have to leave my shoes outside. A cigarette hangs from his mouth. His hand is rough. The cat’s eyes burn. Is it love? Or is it control? We don’t know. But something holds - tight, unspoken.
Lovers from the Mill, Milwaukee.
I spent a month in Milwaukee. My heart was broken, and I was still searching for love around me - trying to feel it in the people I met, in the streets, in small gestures. Then I met this couple. There was something in how they held each other - unguarded. I was struck by how the physical intimacy between them revealed something deeper.
Piteraq, Diiderilaad.
It comes without warning. 45 m/sec. We close the shutters and wait. A scream of wind and ice ripping through the settlement. Not just cold, but a force that strips everything bare. We move to the other end of the settlement that lies behind a protecting cliff. But you cannot hide from the Piteraq. You can only face it. Let it carve you down to The Core.
The house leans. The sled is empty. The dogs curl into the snow like stones refusing to be moved. The world holds its breath.
Boy in Sukhumvit, Bangkok.
It starts to rain, and I seek shelter. Every day it’s the same. From three to five - it rains. As the sun returns, I meet a boy. In the streets of Bangkok, he stands still - as the world slips by. A shadow walks through water, a crack opens in the street. Is this the moment when childhood begins to drift? When we begin to sense that not everything is what it seems - that not everything is safe, or simple?
Ulaanbaatar, Ulaanbaatar.
In Ulaanbaatar, the sun was setting when I sat down on a bench and closed my eyes. A group of boys passed me with a basketball. I followed them - through the alleys, up the hill - until they stopped at a patch of open ground. This was their court. I played with them. Took their portraits. And then I stepped back, up the slope, and looked out over it all. The boys. Their homes. The city stretched below. And beyond that - the mountains.
What moved me wasn’t just the playfulness or the view, but the sense that all of it belonged together. That this fragile piece of land - rough, uneven, marked by power lines and old tires - held joy and history at once.
