It was 1980 - I was 27 and I wrote to Irving Penn, asking if I might come and see him. I had just returned to New York from four years as a photographer, printer and gallery director in Paris. I was starting a publishing company to make books by great photographers and artists. I wanted to make their pictures sing on the printed page. I dreamed of publishing Penn's work. He was 63, at the peak of his powers after a 40-year career, and I revered him as a great master. He wrote me back a handwritten note, which impressed me no end, inviting me to meet him for a sandwich at his studio.
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