Mr. Fink was a Brooklyn-born lefty whose early work, in the late 1950s, chronicled the second-generation Beats who were his cohort in the East Village, where he lived for a time, along with the jazz musicians he adored (he played the harmonica) and the protagonists of the civil rights and antiwar movements.

But in the early 1970s he turned to overt social commentary, infiltrating the society benefits, debutante parties and watering holes of Manhattan’s privileged tribes and their hangers-on. He was fueled, he once wrote, both by curiosity and by his own rage at the privileged class — “its abuses, voluptuous folds, and unfulfilled lives.”

Six months after they met, she moved onto his farm, not certain how things would work out. ”It wasn’t love at first sight,” she said. ”It wasn’t even a slow burn. It was just a simmer, and then all of a sudden we were boiling away.”

Now they can often be found soaking in their hot tub, planting flower gardens, looking at each other’s work, dancing on the porch or arguing. Mr. Fink, who has been divorced twice, describes their relationship as ”contentious but harmonic.” [ED NOTE: lol / relate]

For their contentious periods, he built her a cabin. ”I have my own little house here, which is always good for relationships,” Ms. Posner said. ”Sometimes, I just need to chill and dance around to Santana.”