arly in his career, Larry Fink bought a tuxedo to inveigle his way into Manhattan's debutante balls. Playing the part of a society photographer, he would move through the crowds, shooting in black and's annual Oscar parties and presidential campaigns, Studio 54 clubbers and jazz musicians, his primary interest was never in celebrity. According to his own account, his photographic work—an outgrowth of his old-school Marxist-humanist approach to life—was filled with both a sense of “wrathful sedition” and a kind of “sensual empathy.”
