By Rose Hartman. As usual, I had entered Studio 54, always a guest of Steve Rubell, the club’s exuberant co-owner. Hundreds of fabulously-attired guests of every persuasion had gathered behind the curtain that separated invited, notable guests drinking endless champagne from the hundreds of frenzied revelers who waited patiently (or screamed non-stop to no avail) .to enter Studio. Wearing my usual garb-black jacket, black trousers, comfortable shoes, I made my way toward those glittering creatures -Diane von Furstenberg, Elsa Peretti, Halston, Bianca, Baryshnikov, Truman Capote, Marisa Berenson -that made each night the most exciting place in the universe. Like a fly on the wall, I carried my Olympus 35mm camera with lots of black-and-white film, And waited patiently until I observed an intimate moment that I had to capture. Under the glittering disco ball, An animated Andy Warhol (who never was photographed speaking) was actually engaged in conversation with the gorgeous texan model. I probably took only one or two frames, before the moment evaporated, and guests intervened to chat with the striking duo-in 1977.

Por Rose Hartman