The year was 1996. Atlanta hosted the Olympics, Muhammad Ali lit the ceremonial flame, and the F.B.I. arrested the wrong guy. The boys in pinstriped uniforms would begin a run of four World Series titles in five years. A movie with Mel Gibson wearing a tartan kilt won the Academy Award for best pictures. And in a tragedy closer to these streets, renegade rapper Tupac Shakur was laid to rest, short-circuiting a career that produced much magic and mayhem, and promised even more. Meanwhile, in New York City, on a night in October, under a blood red moon, dogs howled, babies wailed, and a Minotaur was spotted at Battery Park. On that night the maelstrom known as PMI came into being. The mission was simple -- to break all the rules in photographic management -- and then to break them again. To represent the planet's edgiest photographic and artistic talent in a no-bullshit, pretense-free environment that produced maximum benefit for client and artists alike. Ego be damned, we're here to bust-a-move. Site Credits

This was no walk in Central Park. Detractors scoffed at the bankability of some of our artists. Competitors cackled at the audacity of any start-up in the volatile advertising/fashion industry. PMI ran the gauntlet between giddy, Utopian euphoria and the nightmarish realities of competing in a business environment where the old eat their young, and the young quickly become old. It was the 20th century's version of a Roman gladiator arena, and may the strongest beast win. And prevail we did. Seven years later, the hard-earned results of those blood, sweat, double martinis and bank notes are in your hands. The global conquest has begun.