Caught for Posterity in Love "Torture" is the word Sandy Herrera uses to describe being photographed. "I hate taking pictures," Ms. Herrera, 21, said. I guess I'm insecure. Which is why her boyfriend of two years, Sergio Ramirez, 23, was floored when she suggested they pay a Valentine's Day visit to the Bronx Documentary Center, which had invited couples from across the borough to pose for photographs. "This is the highlight of our relationship," Mr. Ramirez said. Ms. Herrera had just nuzzled his neck sheepishly in front of the camera. "She's very anti-photo, so for her to bring this up means a lot," he said. It's like we're glued now - she's accepted us as a couple. She tried to repel me, to push me away, but I broke through. The Bronx Documentary Center is a window-lighted, white-walled gallery in the South Bronx, a classroom-size cultural hub on a bustling corner amid shopworn bodegas. The space was once a German meetinghouse, and until recently, a nightclub. In 2011, a photographer, Michael Kamber, bought the building and set a goal: create a place for Bronx residents, and others, to engage with photography and documentary film. Mr. Kamber has also worked as a photographer for The New York Times. "We're very aware of being outsiders," said Danielle Jackson, the center's co-founder and a recent transplant from Flatbush, Brooklyn. Anything we can do to let people know that this is a space for the community. We want to meet more of our neighbors. On Thursday, the neighbors came in droves. Among the first: Deise and Shawn Lucas, both 31. "I loved this woman before I knew her name," said Mr. Lucas, who married Deise four years ago. They have five children between them. She's my favorite enemy. It's not pleasurable to argue with anyone else. Chris Harris, 45, and Aleatha Manns, 47, entered soon after. They met several months ago at the video rental store at 149th Street and Morris Avenue where Mr. Harris works. Ms. Manns couldn't stop staring at him. What does Mr. Harris like about his girlfriend? "Her attitude," he said. It stinks. But it's pretty, it's attractive. I love her mean little faces, the way she rolls her eyes at me. A lot of couples break up, Ms. Manns said, "but maybe we're the two that's different." Douglas Solomon, 61, and Sylvia Solomon, 62, have been married for 39 years. They met at a house party in 1967. "I walked her to her girlfriend's house, and we stayed up talking until 3 or 4 in the morning," Mr. Solomon said. I said goodnight, kissed her on the cheek, and left. Didn't even get her phone number. Fortunately, on Monday we met on the same bus. And that was God's blessing. You can't write a better autobiography than that. There was a time when all we had was a can of beans between us. And we're now great-grandparents. Tiquan Martin, 11, came alone - without his Valentine. "She's a girl named Joselyn," he said. I've had a crush on her for a while. I tried to get her some candy, but I told her brother to give it to her, because I get butterflies. I don't know if she got it. Phyllis Codrington, 25, a home health aide, was among the last to stand for a photograph. She came in with her son, Tauheed Mitchell Jr., age 6. "I don't have family," she said. At Tauheed's birth, "I was alone," she said. The only reason I live life is because of him. Ms. Codrington has few photographs from her childhood. Which is why - after passing the documentary center every day since its opening - she decided to come in. "When he gets older," she said, "this picture is going to be waiting for him."