Perhaps I am not alone in feeling the uncertainty of the times mirrored in my body. Never before have I felt so detached from my physical form, so inattentive to its soft boundaries. The sensation is not unpleasant – much as on a warm, still afternoon, when the air feels continuous with one’s skin, and the distinction between atmosphere and self becomes momentarily unclear. These formless days, having settled in my pores, have dimmed the lines that once so clearly defined the body that is mine.

The photographers’ liminal lives, however, are perhaps not exceptional but commonplace. “Wilful modernity,” art critic Peter Schjendahl suggests, amounts to “finding, or inventing, a home in nomadic rootlessness.” To be an outsider: conspicuous everywhere and everywhere unseen.

That I look to photographs and films in our shared solitude is perhaps unsurprising. Such images, be they still or moving, lend themselves to our newly-confined lives. There are few better ways to commune with photographs than in a book, to sit with them a while, unhurried and undisturbed. As Goldblatt tells Dodd, “a book is tangible and that quality is, to me, very important. The tactility. The sensuousness.” Moving between pages, backwards and forwards, “inwards and outwards,” offers the viewer a more engaged relationship to the images. With Goldblatt and Mofokeng’s books, which are summaries of lifetimes’ work, one moves not only between photographs but through time, from the photographers’ earliest images to their last. As with pictures printed on bound pages, so Gush’s film makes for intimate viewing on the small screen. It is perhaps not its intended form, but being accessible online, one is moved to watch and re-watch it.