Back when I was in college, when photographer Arlene Gottfried's career was in its early years and mine hadn't begun, I got my first job as Gottfried's intern. It was unpaid (though she covered subway tokens), and once a week I'd take two trains down from the Upper West Side and across town to Gottfried's old apartment in the East Village, in Stuyvesant Town. We'd sit in the small darkened second bedroom of her apartment and look at slides. We'd look at her street portraits, and her then recent work on the gospel choirs she documented and sang in. Occasionally we'd come to an image of one of her family members, and I'd glimpse an old woman in a hospital bed, or a portrait of what looked like Gottfried (it was her sister). The images seemed deeply personal and possibly heartbreaking—we never lingered long on them.