I first became aware of Larry Fink, who died in , sometime in the s when I bought an oversize postcard of one of his pictures.
It showed one of his neighbors in Martins Creek, Pennsylvania, a lady with a mischievous expression, her tongue lodged in a corner of her mouth, squinting over a revolver she is aiming straight at the camera. I was drawn by its comic danger, its ambiguity, its seeming to come out of nowhere. Who was the subject? Who was the photographer? What was their connection?
There was something about the wallpaper behind her that suggested the gun might be loaded, I thought. I wanted to keep at hand that electric moment, possibly in the fourth or fifth hour of a well-lubricated party, when jollity might suddenly be tipping over into mayhem. I kept it tacked up above my desk for years.
Then, about a decade and a half later, I took a job at Bard College, part of the time in the photography department, and there I met Larry. Immediately, the picture snapped into focus. Not only was Larry capable of establishing trust with his subject, he was also capable of egging her on.
Larry adjusted the emotional temperature in any room he entered. He was loose as a goose, humming with energy, bouncing on his feet, now and then pulling out his mouth harp and delivering a blast of Little Walter bent notes.
