A receptionist connected my call to “someone who can help”, which I took to mean a publicist, PA or agent. “You come to top floor.” I knocked on the door of the Caruso Suite and Pavarotti appeared, no publicist, no PA, no agent. I passed him a tube containing a portrait of his parents that I had taken in Modena the previous year. Pavarotti melted. I photographed Pavarotti once more with the Spice Girls and escaped unflicked.

Source: The Guardian December 24, 2017 06:00 UTC