Imagine a day in the life of a Beatle

From an era before selfies, Paul McCartney’s cache of photos, even the out of focus ones, prompts Jamie Mulvaney to consider what perspective we need on ourselves.

Jamie Mulvaney

Jamie is Vicar of St Michael's Chester Square, London.

Two gallery vistor stair at four photo portraits of The Beatles.

Viewing Paul McCartney Photographs 1963–64: Eyes of the Storm.

National Portrait Gallery.

Imagine a day in the life of a Beatle. It's easy if you try. Or is it?

Last year, the late Matthew Perry allowed us a searing insight into life with a rollicking read about his very high highs and very low lows. Yet more books have been published recently on the toxicity of fame. Britney Spears is the subject of an autobiography and a biography. Another simply borrows the title, Toxic. John Updike wrote that 'fame is the mask that eats the face'. Baz Luhrmann last year documented Elvis Presley's destruction in his typically kaleidoscopic way. And into this media mix a recent exhibition shows a more innocent, intimate moment in the fame prototype of Beatlemania, intriguingly entitled Eyes of the Storm.

Surely with the Beatles predating the selfie-stick and Snapchat, we'd be reliant on paparazzi. But as Sir Paul McCartney can play pretty much every musical instrument, it's not a surprise he knows how to use a camera. And so, it emerged during lockdown that he had kept 1,000 previously unseen photos from 1961-1963.

To relaunch the beautifully remodelled National Portrait Gallery, McCartney displayed a whole cache of photos. One of the criticisms of present-day photography is that it's too easy, that we retain all sorts of out-of-focus photos on our phone. McCartney had preserved all these, and although it's curated and edited, there's many photos that wouldn't normally be seen.

You get the fab four goofing about, and also in quieter moments. There's young George looking shattered in the back of a car, and John concentrating. McCartney forgot that Lennon pulled this particular face, with his finger to his lip. His song 'Help!' emerged a year later. He told Playboy, 'I was fat and depressed, and I was crying out for 'help'.’ They were indeed in the eye of a storm.

We’ve lived with an orthodoxy that we understand ourselves through self-expression – that we ourselves are the ones to define who we are.

And in the middle of the storm, we see the Beatles finding moments of joy. They land in New York for the Ed Sullivan Show, at the top of the charts and the top of their fame. Fans chasing them down Manhattan streets, fans balancing precariously on an airport roof, and one inexplicably holds a monkey. American optimism had been battered by JFK's assassination and the Beatles' arrival was a welcome respite. This joy became even clearer (and more vivid?) as McCartney switched to colour when they reached Miami. But before the colour, the songwriter in conversation with Stanley Tucci singled out seeing a worker he snapped while they were on the train – perhaps a mirror to his own working-class roots and family.

But then there are also the more explicit self-reflections… A series that struck me were McCartney's self-portraits, looking in mirror, out of focus. McCartney said that his first thought was this was the National Portrait Gallery - at least they could be in focus! But then he realised they had a warmth, and a softness to them.

Those of us who are not Beatles, or famous, also often live our lives out of focus, with blind spots, or a little dizzy from the storms around us and within us. Canadian Catholic philosopher Charles Taylor, before the selfie was invented, wrote about our self-perception in relation to the outside world, and that we are 'self-interpreting animals'.

Since the eighteenth century we’ve lived with an orthodoxy that we understand ourselves through self-expression – that we ourselves are the ones to define who we are and how we relate to the world - even how we relate to ourselves. It’s so much the norm, it might seem confronting to question it, but in an increasingly confusing world, this is an increasingly difficult way to understand ourselves. Whilst many of the Beatles' songs are about perception, King David also wrote in the psalms about our need for an external perspective:

'You have searched me, Lord,

and you know me.

You know when I sit and when I rise;

you perceive my thoughts from afar.'

What we each need is a perspective on ourselves from the outside that is warm, soft, but also in focus. What if there was a perspective on ourselves free from blind spots, a precision lens that fully sees and fully understands the essence of who we are, and who we might be? Someone who sees the deleted photos, and yet is completely gentle and loving in how they see us? The way we truly understand ourselves is in relation to our Creator. God shows us both what is seen and unseen. Like in these photos, God is not fazed by the contrast of light and darkness, and provides a way out of the storm:

'Search me, God, and know my heart;

test me and know my anxious thoughts.

See if there is any offensive way in me,

and lead me in the way everlasting.'

Snippet

Culture

Mental Health

Music

30 June 2025

1 min read

Why we loved Lewis Capaldi’s Glastonbury comeback

We might impress people with our strength, but we connect through our weaknesses

Jessica Norman

Jessica is a Formation Tutor at St Mellitus College, and completing a PhD in Pauline anthropology,

Lewis Capaldi sings with eyes closes, holding a mic and its stand

Capaldi hits the high notes.

BBC.

Friday at Glastonbury 2025 saw something more than a musical performance: it saw a homecoming. Lewis Capaldi returned to the stage after a two-year hiatus, and the response was nothing short of extraordinary. His performance in 2023 was emotional as people saw a man struggling with his mental and physical health, which ultimately led him to step back for two whole years. As he returned to the stage, people cheered, and people cried. He cried. I cried. It was not just the return of a singer, but the return of a story we all long for: a redemption arc. A story of coming undone and coming back.

Capaldi had stepped away from the spotlight for those two years to care for his mental health. When he appeared, he was welcomed with warmth, kindness and compassion. The fields of Glastonbury turned into a sanctuary for a few sacred minutes, as thousands honoured someone not because he had pushed through, but because he had paused.

I found myself deeply moved. I couldn’t look away. Why was this moment, this man, this vulnerability, so captivating?

It is because, as humans, we are wired for stories of authenticity. We love a comeback story. The narrative of someone who ventures into the wilderness and then returns speaks to something in all of us. Who is willing to admit their own weakness. To return to the stage in this moment reminded us that the comeback was greater than the setback. This was a moment worth celebrating.

As part of his return set, he debuted his new song Survive, in which he sings,

“But when hope is lost and I come undone, I swear to God, I’ll survive.”

There’s power in that lyric, not in thoughtless defiance, but in the quiet, resolute declaration that survival to keep going is an act of courage.

St Paul, in his second letter to Christians in the city of Corinth, reminds us of a paradox at the heart of the Christian faith:

“I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”

Strength and weakness are not opposing forces; instead, they are intertwined. The bridge connecting them is vulnerability. Strength in weakness provides us with a portrait of actual vulnerability, as sharing our weakness requires great strength. It has been said by many that although we might impress people with our strength, we connect with people through our weaknesses. This vulnerability provides the connection that we are built for as humans.

In a culture that celebrates performance, progression, and perfection, vulnerability often feels like a risk. But what if it’s our greatest strength? What if this, the trembling voice, the open heart, the tear-streaked face, is what connection is made of?

Capaldi’s return showed us a part of what it means to be human: to break, to heal, to return. And to be welcomed back. It was a gentle resistance to cancel culture, which tends to hold people captive in their weakest moment, freezing them in failure. But the crowd at Glastonbury chose a different way. They chose empathy and kindness when confronted with another's humanity. This made space for a new story to be told.

The Christian story has always been one of ashes to beauty. Of life out of death. Of hope in despair. Whether it’s the prodigal son running home, or Peter by the firelight, forgiven and restored, there is room in the story of grace for those who step away, and celebration when they return.

And so, Capaldi’s return was more than a performance: it was a parable. A living story of what happens when we choose to make space for one another’s pain and honour the quiet courage it takes to come back. It reminded us that sharing our weaknesses is not a weakness at all, but an act of strength, even defiance, in a culture that so often pulls us toward isolation and self-protection. Why was it so captivating? Because vulnerability is powerful. It draws us in, disarms us, and reminds us of our shared humanity. We long to be known, and we ache to belong. In a field of thousands, vulnerability is what ultimately unites and connects us.

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