The blood-stained canvas holds an allure for those who step through the ropes and expose themselves to an unrelenting opponent who seeks transcendence in the chaos of combat. A fist collides with flesh. A bolt of lightning detonates behind the eyes. The world spins like a carnival ride, and, in a suspended instant, the boundaries of ego vanish.

Impact awakens a heightened state of consciousness. A cocktail of agony and adrenaline pours through the body; shock radiates physically. Coruscating pinpricks of light come in syncopated bursts like paparazzi. Pain is a vortex, a familiar friend welcomed like a drowning man ultimately accepts the sea. But suddenly, life’s transience is cast into stark relief. It’s clear: you are alive!

Like an oak, the neck withstands a howitzer right hook to the jaw. A taste of pennies bathes the tongue. The camera dramatizes what escapes the naked eye: grimace, whiplash, a dynamic deformation of jowls freeze- framed. Comes a body blow, and the thud of a butcher’s mallet turns legs into concrete pillars sunk into mud. A maelstrom of contusions is a humbling reminder of mortality, but the impetus to push past calamity flouts the inevitable. Another hornet sting precedes the swing of a wrecking ball that slams home, a favor returned with compound interest and the punishing artistry of painting a portrait in merciless strokes of celadon, mauve, and puce.

Contests are brutal; contestants are not brutes. They face an existential battle with themselves. As fists fly, a capacity for vengeance is balanced with self-imposed limits. The rude certainty of getting punched in the face in the ring is to confront raw vulnerability. In the crucible of combat, fighters confront their innermost demons.

Inspired by the Mike Tyson quote, “Everybody’s got a plan until they get punched in the face,” these portraits explore the character of individual contestants who step before the camera within minutes of stepping out of the ring, still bloodied, bruised, and dazed.