Cookie at Vittorio’s casket NYC, September 16, 1989, Nan Goldin
I was a train from Penn Station to New Brunswick, NJ a couple months back, and the woman sitting across the aisle from us got a phone call that brought word of a friends death. She was instantly overcome with grief. My instinct was to take a picture. I got out my camera, but Britt, my red-headed compatriot, was totally mortified. She asked me what I was doing with enough indignation in her voice for me to know that it wasn’t a question. I know it’s exploitive. And I obviously felt huge amounts of sadness for this person. But if Britt hadn’t been there, there’s a pretty good chance I would have taken it. Is that fucked up?