Paul the Photographer by Charlie Melkonian

On a sunny November day in Nashville, I found myself with six hours to kill. A friend of mine, whom I was visiting, had to work all day, so I decided to get away from the Broadway antics of tractor party buses and PBRs, and go somewhere a little quieter. For my solitary afternoon, I chose the Frist Art Museum. 

I entered the art deco building, with its stony exterior and long, drawn out staircases, with zero expectations. Upon climbing two floors, however, I was struck by a picture of Paul McCartney. I assumed an artist had created a portrait of him, but I was surprised to read the following title: “Paul McCartney Photographs 1963-1964: Eyes of the Storm.” I was even more surprised to find out that, in fact, the photographs were all taken by McCartney himself. 

Having written about “The Lyrics” in a previous issue, my initial thought was not to write about McCartney, an already over-chronicled subject, again. Yet I was intrigued by not only the photographs, but the ethos of what McCartney has been up to for the past five years: reminiscing and remembering the moments of intimacy, whether creative or personal, that shaped him in his (and The Beatles’) formative years. Moreover, I was struck by how these pictures landed in me in my early 20s, as McCartney was when he took them in the 60s. 

At first glance, what fascinated me about the photos was McCartney’s fervent interest in people. Most of the images in the exhibition were of people, both those close to him, like John, George, and Ringo, as well as those he was meeting for the first time. He took photos of other photographers whilst they took photos of him. He captured New York City cab drivers whom we can imagine he spontaneously decided to photograph. 

What is interesting about looking closer at the photos is the notion that everyone seems at ease with McCartney. Even in an image titled “Photographers in Central Park,” the photographer on the right is smiling a genuine, goofy smile. In the portraits of his bandmates, their guard is down; they are not the Beatles, but John, George, and Ringo.

Paul McCartney. Photographers in Central Park. New York, February, 1964.

In the images McCartney has chosen to capture, and in his skillful framing, we see an individual not interested in memorializing himself, or clinging to any sense of stardom; rather, we see a person who is fascinated by documentation. McCartney is intent on commemorating the little moments, the moments of joy and anxiety that are intrinsically human. He writes, “I love the intimacy of these shots. We were a tight-knit group, so only one of us would have been able to get these kinds of photographs.” 

In an over-exposed image simply titled “John Lennon in car,” John sits pensively, brows furrowed, glasses on. One can imagine he is tweaking a lyric in “A Hard Days Night” or “Can’t Buy Me Love.”  It does not appear that John knew he was being photographed; or if he did, he didn’t mind. That's what is so telling about this exhibit: no one seemed to mind when Paul the Photographer was at work. 

In two images of Ringo, both titled “Ringo Starr,” we see Paul at his best. In the former, Ringo, barely in focus, grins widely, his eyes closed, hair flopping all over the place. In the latter, Ringo sits in a black pinstripe suit, leaning his head against his fist; he looks resigned, tired, or maybe he is just thinking. The power of these informal images is that we get a glimpse of such idolized figures as the Beatles in simple, quotidian moments, moments when they are not necessarily doing anything at all.

Paul McCartney. Ringo Starr. London, January, 1964.

I recently spoke to a friend about how, in freshman year of college, I felt much more wide-eyed than I do now six months post-grad. Everything felt new and exciting; to watch a foreign film at the IFC was a rite of passage, to party on a Brooklyn rooftop overlooking a Saturday night skyline was electric. McCartney’s images, to me, are filled with that same sense of wide-eyed wonder; the Beatles’ are not represented as stars posing for their daily press photos, but people being photographed by their friends, not unlike how we use phones today. 

McCartney writes, in another poignant caption, “...We were just wondering about the world, just excited about all these little things that were making up our lives. We were fascinated with what we were doing and what was happening to us and it’s something I’ve never really lost. I’ve never lost that sense of wonder.” Perhaps, when standing on a Brooklyn rooftop at 11:30 PM on a Saturday night, you can allow yourself to smile at the skyline, to forget for just a moment that you know all that you know. Perhaps that “sense of wonder” isn’t childish or naive, but celebratory; perhaps that wonder is the very point.