She was one of the most influential photographers of her time, though too often she was dismissed as a voyeur: a mere chronicler of freaks and misfits. In fact, Diane Arbus brought an unblinking, discerning eye to society's underside and to its pathetic, heroic, frightening, hilarious, all-too-human inhabitants. Judgment rarely marked her work; only an eagle's eye for composition and for the perfect moment – as well as her sympathy for people she likely saw, oddly given her background, as fellow outsiders. She died in 1971, a suicide at age 48. So tightly did her eldest daughter Doon control all that subsequently was written or shown about her mother that the legacy of this depressive photographic genius was in danger of being diminished, if not actually forgotten.