Images of the Iraq war shown in the media early on didn't ring true to Nina Berman, an award-winning documentary photographer. "The coverage seemed very unrealistic to me," she explained by telephone Tuesday from New York.

One of the viewpoints missing was that of the badly wounded soldiers whose experiences and losses were such an essential part of the war, she says. So in 2003 Berman entered the world of veterans, and their families, who were adjusting to civilian life while coping with serious physical and/or mental disability.

Berman will be here today for the opening of an exhibition of 12 of her penetrating photographs, "Purple Hearts," at Pittsburgh Filmmakers Galleries in North Oakland.

One of the things that distinguishes her photographs is their home setting. They could almost be candid snapshots, like any of the other thousands taken daily around the world, except for the disfiguring scar, the distant stare, that separates, and now defines, these individuals.

The photographs were taken mainly in the veterans' bedrooms or front yards, Berman says. She first interviews her subject for a couple of hours, which helps her to learn about the person, and gives him or her a chance to develop trust in Berman. For the photograph, "They sit or stand. Their expressions are their own."

Berman doesn't pose her subjects, nor does she digitally manipulate the images. "There's nothing fake about them," she says.

The first two photographs she made were in Pennsylvania, and both of the men were blind. Berman had never photographed a blind person. "You have a sense of power, that I don't really want to have." One of her subjects, for example, flinched at the sound of her camera shutter, and she tried to finish more quickly so as not to continue to "scare him."

"[The photo sessions] were devastating," she says. "I was emotionally sunk."

Berman made a conscious decision to photograph the veterans in this exhibition, for the most part, as solitary figures. "They're very alone in their heads and they're very alone in their bodies," she says.

Another conscious decision Berman made was to photograph away from hospitals, doctors and the like. Shown in such an environment, she says, people tend to think that "someone's going to patch them up and things are going to be fine." In actuality, due to treatment advances, more people are surviving, but injuries are more massive and they're living with more complicated problems. Family members would probably say they're glad their relatives are still alive, she says, "but the soldiers, maybe not."

"Now it's an economic issue as well as a moral issue," Berman says. "It's a hard subject. We can fix things -- but what does that mean? We can fix these soldiers like we can fix Iraq, but what does that really mean?"

When she began photographing, there were 1,000 wounded, she says. The number has risen to 27,000 to 28,000 wounded in action. Those numbers swell to 60,000 to 70,000 if those not wounded in action -- described in Berman's book as having incurred "combat support or non-hostile injuries," and therefore not eligible to receive a Purple Heart -- are included.

"This is the big hidden story, because these people are really damaged as well."

Berman says she was surprised that most of the veterans she contacted agreed to be photographed. "I was getting them at this moment of transformation, when they go from soldier and marine to veteran." Our culture doesn't treat those going through that change very well, she says, and thinks that they appreciated her interest. In some instances, Berman has connected a person with an organization, such as the Veterans Administration, when they needed help and were unable to pursue it on their own.

"It's not like I need to rescue the world," but it tugs at her when she encounters someone living alone with no resources. "I live in New York with lots of resources."

Another surprise was that many would liked to have stayed in the service.

"There is this great ambivalence and a sense of loss. ... For many of them this was their whole future, and now it's gone. And, of course, you want that back. The military was their ticket out, and now they're back in [their previous] situation ... and worse off."

What this exhibition offers, Berman says, is "a place in which to contemplate all of these things in a space that is quiet and without other distractions. My hope is that people don't turn away."

Also at Filmmakers, in the Outer Galley, is "Grave and Deteriorating: Images of the Iraq War" by another prize-winning, New York-based photojournalist, Chris Hondros. The images range more broadly than Berman's, but are as startling, whether of a blindfolded prisoner in a cell or a crying blood-spattered child in a dark room into which steps a booted leg, outfitted in camouflage.

The exhibitions continue through Oct. 25 at 477 Melwood Ave. Admission is free. Today's opening reception is 7 to 9 p.m. Gallery hours are noon to 5 p.m. Mondays through Fridays and during evening film screenings. A DVD of Berman's interviews runs continuously in the gallery, and her book, "Purple Heart: Back from Iraq," ($24.95) is available. More information: 412-681-5449 or pghfilmmakers.org.