Bagism: Art & Poetry

Exhibit 11


As an artist of many talents, John Lennon has undoubtedly inspired countless numbers of people to explore their own artistic talents. Here then are some of the creations done by John's fans in his honor. If you'd like to contribute something you've created, please read the guidelines for submission.

Human World
by Demi Cyan

Human World I made this one day in February 1999, thinking that it could be the cover for one more Beatles album, if they did one. I didn't have any picture to look at the faces when I was drawing this, so this must be how I remember them. Their haircolors are inspired of the dresses they were wearing on the cover to Sgt.Pepper... and means also that we're all different, but shall live together in a human world.


The 12 Faces and Phases of John Lennon In Spirit
by Peter Teekamp

When I found out the news about John leaving this earth, I was not only shocked, but also disappointed for the human race. Of all the people, why him, this peacemaker and by a fan asking for an autograph? Shot down, in front of his home after a hard day's work, in the middle of his comeback recording his new album "Starting Over". I felt a direct inspiration to paint him at that moment. With tears in my eyes, hearing the radio play "Imagine" over and over again., I started to paint the faces and phases of John's life in spirit.


John In The Sky (#9)
by Anders Kvernberg

John In The Sky (#9) "John In The Sky" is a collage of many pictures, with the "White Album"-picture and the "Mystery Tour"-picture in the middle. I think it's quite fascinating to look at.


The Dreamweaver
by Anders Kvernberg

The Dreamweaver I made a pencil drawing from the Magical Mystery Tour hat-picture, my favourite picture of John. Later, I coloured it with watercolours, and put the two together in this psychedelic way in Paint Shop. The leaf beneath is from the wood outside my house in Norway...


They are the Greatest
by Jessie McCormick

I drew this one night while I was listening to the White Album. I got pictures of books to look off of, and this is what was created in the end. The Beatles were, of course, my inspiration.


Untitled
by Mars Black

Untitled The image I am sending is one of my own creation I did the work in two phases, the first around 1972. The original picture was from the 13 month calendar in the "Live at Toronto" album. I converted the original into a high contrast Black and White. Then in 1994 I took a silk screen class and add the color.


War Is Over
by Kristin Turberville

War Is Over I drew this in May of 1998 with a regular No.2 pencil. I was inspired to draw this after I saw a picture of John and Yoko sitting together dressed in army clothing. I decided not to draw Yoko (don't get me wrong, Yoko's cool...I just didn't feel like drawing her) and called this artwork, War Is Over. This was really fun to draw, especially the clothing.


The Beatles
by Kristin Turberville

The Beatles I finished this drawing in the March of 1999 and I did it with a very soft charcoal pencil. This is one of my favorite drawings I've ever done because I really put a lot of time into it and it's pretty big. I was inspired to draw this because it's one of my favorite pictures of the Beatles and I thought it'd be cool if I drew it. :)


Imagine
by Kristin Turberville

Imagine I drew this in the November of 1998 with a very soft charcoal pencil. It's from the reverse cover of John's "Imagine"...so that's where the name came from. My inspiration was obviously, John Lennon. I have drawn many pictures of John and know his features like the back of my hand. I really liked drawing Imagine.


John Lennon's Pre-Solo LPs
by Peter Chema

John Lennon's Pre-Solo LPs This was originally just a collection of the 15 Beatles Albums I had as my temporary desktop. Then one day I was playing around in Microsoft Paint (that's right, simpleton Paint!) and I decided to fiddle with the collage and attempt to substitute the three other Beatles pictures with my favorite Beatle, John Lennon. I am not making a statement saying 'Only John was The Beatles!' or anything like that, I was just having fun and creative time altering these Classic Beatles LPs. The finished product turned out great in my opinion, keeping in mind I used the simple 'cut' and 'paste' method on Paint. Anyway, this is what a ended up with and I hope you get a kick out of it.


Respectfully, Mr. Lennon
by Brian John Mayer

Respectfully, Mr. Lennon I am an artist, but not by trade. The picture of John I made while I was in a hospital. It is comprised of water color paint, ink, and colored pencils, and mounted on construction paper and posterboard. I skewed the original to about 50% so that it's entirety could be viewed, however the mounting paper and posterboard are not visible.


Observations on a Saturday...a Visit to Strawberry Fields, New York City
by Christine Paldino

Saturday, July 17, 1999 12:10 p.m.

I'm sitting, pensive, quiet, in your place. Looking around me - faces, voices. Everyone stops and looks. A camera flashes. The flowers, ever-present, sit in your honor. A squirrel scurries past from under the bench. The breeze, soft, through my hair. Are you in that breeze? I shudder - I still can't look there. Why not? Everyone stops, a moment, two moments. Not me. My gaze cannot meet it. This disturbs me - it always has. No photos. I'm frightened by its beauty.

Again, I look at the faces - so many. They stare, but I still cannot. I sit close enough to feel you, but not too close. Why? Why? Voices, different languages, speak the same words. Truly the world lives as one here. Everyone knows you.

Is this why I cannot leave you a gift? I'm not sure. Today, I passed three flower stands on my way here. Opportunities missed. I cannot step too close, and I am hurt and angry with myself. It is too close - you are too close. People now, posing - their bent knees atop the mosaic. Still I cannot get up, move closer. Why? This place. It pulls at me. Yet I can only stand so close. It's very busy here today. One, two, three, four cameras in tandem. Whispered conversations. People remember you.

I've always been troubled by this.

People pass by, in and out. I watch them as they walk. Not me. I sit. A little boy pushes his own stroller. A girl trips as she walks, clutching her coffee. Don't stand so close!!! The wind has died down.

Took a cab this time. As I walked into the park I saw cameras, poised toward the street. I don't look there, my head stays down. I cannot look across the street or I will run.

Now a woman runs circles around the mosaic. Get away, I want to yell! Don't step there! Why can't I walk over there? My third visit, and still I cannot. A huge crowd now. Ten, fifteen - surround you now. Do you hear them? I know, somehow, that you do. I feel you, softly, next to me. Rustling the pages of my notebook. That's you. Hi! Always, I feel you here. The crowd breaks up now. Still I sit on my bench. I know that I can sit for hours and write to you - tell you what's happening here. Hey! You're twisting the page now, so that I cannot see the edge. Playing with me. I came here today hoping to write and I find that all I can do is talk to you.

The little boy now, his stroller pushed aside, runs over and picks up your drawing for your little boy. Someone has left it for you. Remember Sean? So many generations here. Young, old. Some sit on the benches with me. Some sit beyond the fence, in the green grass. Do they all care more than me: that they can stop and say hello? Music, now. In my ears. You. Me. Your music. I brought you along. You are everywhere here. "Revolver" washes over me, through my ears. Shutting out the voices. Again - a huge crowd. I count over twenty this time. No. Thirty!!! Must be a tour. All here to say hello. Still I talk to you. A guide talks of you now, telling of Strawberry Field in Liverpool. Talking of your song. They walk through. A smaller crowd still lingers.

Why does my pen refuse to stop? I write to you as if you sit here - as if I am relating my story to you. I realize you see what I see, as you sit here with me. Another breeze. I close my eyes. A leaf flutters from the tree above me, landing in my lap. I let it stay.

I keep coming back to this, because it disturbs me not able to say hello. People walk up to you, they don't hesitate. Me, I cannot. Me - of all people! I'm not sure what it is I fear. My words grow sloppy as pen flies over paper. I should rewrite this. But I cannot stop the flow.

A man, a green suitcase in his hand, stops now. Puts the suitcase down. Snap, snap. Now he sits on a bench. No "Revolver." "Rubber Soul." It suits my mood. Pensive. A dog lies down on the black pavement, tongue hanging out from the heat. So cute!!! I think about what is going on outside the entrance. How many face the other side of the street? Gaping, staring? How many stand where you walked? I cannot. It's good to be with here with you -- too good -- if I look there, I'm afraid you'll be gone. Another puppy now. No two!!! Sharing an owner. They've all spotted each other - the dogs - and stop to say hello.

I'll stick with "Revolver." Too lazy to dig in my bag now. It's okay with you? Good! I think I'll take a break, listen to the music, rewrite my words. I'm afraid I won't understand what I've told you - scribbles.

12:48 p.m.

Suddenly it is so empty here! The benches sit, beckoning, where minutes ago, so many sat. Just as quickly, though, people walk past again. Temporary crowds. It's such a beautiful day. "Eleanor Rigby" plays in my ears. You never did agree on this one, did you? I have to laugh to myself. I cannot hear the man's words, but I watch his arms, hands, gesturing, as he explains to his daughter where they are. They share a frozen lemonade. I wonder if she'll remember what he told her?

People walk now, from the other direction. A couple, he with his striped shirt open, she in a bathing suit top. Aahh, you probably like that! No, wait, looks like a bra! Even better, I hear you say. A tiny baby sleeps in a carriage pushed past me. Behind, a brother and sister share a stroller. Another crowd says hello. I grow a bit braver. I think I'll walk closer today. Maybe sit at the edge and write. I'll wait though -- too crowded now. You tell me, go on. There's the wind again. The flowers left today are beautiful. Yellow, pink, purple, peach. In the center. Still I wonder - will I ever leave something? My legs feel lead-like. I'm watching now, as another group gathers. I want to join them, sit down, write, but I can't. Not yet. Still too early. This group holds white boxes, tied with a red ribbon. Wonder what's inside. I'm growing braver. Looking, but still from my bench.

"She Said She Said." Did I ever tell you that I love this song?

My writing grows more unreadable. I must rewrite this! I'll get back to you, give me a few minutes to catch up.

You'd laugh at the two young men who just passed through. "What the hell are kids wearing these days?" you'd say, shaking your head. Baggy shorts, wide enough to fit four, six, legs where two belong. "I don't need to see what kind of fuckin' underwear you've got on!" You'd chuckle at this. Much has changed since you left. Phases, fads, come and go. The sixties, seventies, have already made comebacks. Oh! "Tomorrow Never Knows." Just a second. Can't write, have to let the music take over.

I'm so angry now!!! The strangest two people I've ever seen, bend down now, in the middle. Another man moves everything out of the way. Put it back. A rude word about Yoko floats through the air. Others laugh. I cringe. Don't they know you can hear them?

1:10 p.m.

Been here an hour.

So many people still love you. It's amazing -- so many just sit. Like me. I wish that horrid couple would leave. Scaring me, they are. I know - don't judge by the outside. Easy to say, but difficult to do. A microphone, talking to others here. Not me! I already have someone to talk to. Still more talk of Yoko. I don't want to hear this. They talk of you as if you are not here. He knows all, or so he thinks, this man. Shut up, will you?

I can't concentrate. They won't leave! I grow a bit braver. I want to sit next to you, next to the gifts. They're leaving! Good!!! I'm sorry I haven't come closer. I need to say hello from Linda -- I promised her -- but it's not right to do it from here. "Rubber Soul" now. This song. It's like a drug. Not just for me. For others. Beyond a drug, for some. Three times and counting.

Going to write a bit of my story now, but I'll be back. Oh, there you are again! The wind. Still close. I smile. I need to sit near you. Can I do it? Get up!!! Lead!!! My legs are still lead! Maybe in a bit. It's still early. I tell myself that, but I'm still scared. See you in a bit.

Aaahhh, I must tell you an interesting battle of wits is going on here. A woman -- I feel almost sorry for her -- has designated herself keeper of this lovely place. I'm sure you've seen her. People adjust, move, the flowers, the photos. Move them away to sit inside with you. She gets angry, mutters, moves them back. Here she goes again, getting angry, cursing. Readjusting them over and over. So angry! Talking loudly, pissed.

"I'm ashamed of all you fans."
"It's not my job."
"I've been fixing them all fucking day."

A man - the one who spoke of Yoko - gone now - moves the photos of you on purpose - to play with her. What will she do? Sure enough, she is taking care of you. But it saddens me. Is this her daily life?

I take off my headset for a moment, wanting to hear the outside sounds. I join in the conversation a bit. "What is she doing?" I ask. They tell me, "Go back to your writing, we'll keep you posted." Friendly people, they are. I laugh a bit with them.

She's angry again. Something about sex in the bushes. "Not here!" She yells. "Screw you!" to another visitor. Sad. Very sad. It's been an interesting afternoon.

More people, more photos. Making peace signs. Familiar? You, Lady Liberty, Bob Gruen.

They're talking about your deportation battle now. I listen, smile to myself. People still talk of you - want to understand your life. You are still so close to everyone's consciousness. Another crowd - a big one, again. Your name, in a thick accent. In the distance, I hear drums. Back to "Rubber Soul." To my story. Till later, my friend!

1:55 p.m.

I can't write but for my thoughts to you!!! "Nowhere Man" now, flows through my ears, into my heart. My soul. What were you thinking when you wrote those words? Feeling lost - so lost - so young, but trapped by your own dream. It speaks to me, that song. It's me. It was you. It was Janine - but Janine is me. Such a huge crowd now. My bench is no longer my own. I get nervous in crowds like this. About 40 people surround you now. But you see them. You're here, watching with me. I feel you less as the crowds grow bigger. They interfere with our intimacy.

A ceremony now. They all join hands around you, talking to you. "We've come a long way," his voice says. This scares me, it doesn't comfort me. They revere you, like a God. But you're just a man - don't' they know that? Singing softly "All we are saying is give peace a chance." The woman, your keeper, stands watch over you.

I struggle with all of this - in a way, they have forgotten one side of you. They remember the fighter, the poet for peace. They forget, though - the music!!! Hamburg, Liverpool, Britain, America - the music!!! The Beatle, the rocker. I remember him!!! I need to stop a bit, sit back. This crowd is overwhelming me.

It's so hot today. One hundred degrees. Even here, in the shade, I grow uncomfortable. The frozen lemonade looks so wonderful - but not for me - I can't. Not anymore. Too sweet. Too much sugar.

A man walks by, guitar over his shoulder, his cat perched on his bag. So cute!!! You'd love that - you love cats, always have.

My writing grows sporadic now. I just want to sit - listen - watch - think.

2:45 p.m.

Almost three hours now. I should be getting home soon. I cannot write my stories, cannot put pen to paper with logical results, but for this dialogue with you, but I know that tonight, as I stare at the screen, a blank page, the words will come. I'm brimming, flowing. "Rubber Soul" plays through for the second time. I'm going to say hello now - get up - move my feet. Hello, and goodbye. Too crowded now. My mind cannot function at its peak. As the crowd grows bigger, you grow fainter, but I know you're still here. I'm getting up - up - must do this, for me, for you. I promised Linda. I shall write the words, "So long." But not "Goodbye." I've had a wonderful visit with you!

2:55 p.m.

My things gathered.

I'm leaving now - slowly I walk towards the center - where you are closest. I need to say hello. From me, from Linda. I'm finally here! I did it!!! Standing above, looking down. I look at the photos. You, Lady Liberty. Then - there!!! Yes - they remember. They do remember - the music. You, Paul. Intense. 1969. Linda Mac took this - look at you two - so in tune. She captured the love so well - the respect. Yes, they remember the music. Till next time, my dear friend.


One Life Ends
by Christine Paldino

One life ends -

And another begins. That's what "they" say, isn't it? The natural order of things. There is death, but there is also life. We cannot have one without the other. I wish right now that I could believe that. I want to believe it; need to believe it.

My hands grip the steering wheel - knuckles white. Why do I grip the wheel so desperately? Like a death grip? Does it represent my desperate need to grip onto something real? I drive, almost not realizing that the car is moving. Is it moving, really? Everything seems to be standing still. My mind is numb. Where am I going? Oh, yes - now I remember. I'm running - running - leaving the city behind. Leaving the truth behind. But, wait, something's wrong. It's not working, dammit! Drive, faster - faster -

I don't realize until I get here, that this is where I was driving to. A big, wide open place. I know that I need to be lost inside a place like this. I must be lost - I feel lost. So lost. I wish I could feel nothing. If I felt nothing, this would not be so impossible.

I feel so tiny, the world feels so big. I stop my car and get out, staring into nothing. What am I looking for? Answers. Sense. I see none of that. Instead I see the sky, the water - untouched. It looks so peaceful. The world carries on. Life goes on. But does it? I don't really know. I shiver. I am so cold, so very cold. The calendar tells me, tells us, that it should be cold. Winter is here. But outside, it's not cold. It's warm, balmy. Inside though, inside me, it is winter. I know that inside it will always be winter for me now. The chills take over. I shiver again, but I do not go back to the car. I look towards the water again. I remember words, from a long time ago: the only thing we need is water - cool, clear, water. Who said that? He did. I smile, feeling warm. Just for a second. When that second passes, I realize that I am colder than ever. No - that was Yesterday, I tell myself. Yesterday, everything was different. I don't believe in Yesterday anymore.

I wrap myself in a blanket, disappearing. I want to disappear inside of it. I want to wrap my soul in that blanket. Protect it from the cold. My heart, my soul are so cold. Like ice. I am a child, a baby, newborn, wrapping herself inside her mother's womb. No, mommy, I don't want to be part of this outside world! I don't like it out there! Please -

I hear the roar of the ocean. It sings to me, but its song is sarcastic. I hear its words. "It will be all right. See - I am still here. I am constant. Life carries on." Somehow, my feet move. They draw me closer to the water, but I don't know who is moving them there. The ocean, its waves, hum to me now. It is supposed to soothe, me, but it does not. The very familiarity of it is so sarcastic right now. How can it be here, so much like it always is, when everything else has been changed forever? Changed, in one split second? It laughs at me. That's what it does. It is laughing. Look, it says. I am the same. I have not changed. But you, you have been changed forever. The ocean's laughter is cruel. It taunts me, like a lost child on a playground, surrounded by bullies.

Finally, I sit down. My blanket. I pull it more tightly around me. Tighter, tighter - I stare at the water, at its enormity. I feel something stirring inside of me. I look down, then, at my pregnant belly. One life ends, and another begins. I put my hand ever so softly, protectively, on top of it. "I'll protect you from this world, I promise", but I don't feel that those words mean anything. Empty promises. Who protected him? Who? And who will protect me now?

The emptiness, is so huge. I look at the water, staring into it. It is so powerful, so big - it is my emptiness. The water, it represents it.

The questions, when I allow myself to ask them, threaten to become an avalanche of 'whys'. I don't want to ask why. But still the questions come, they race through my head, one after the other. Each new one knocks the last one away, like dominoes. And still none of them are answered. No answers. I am not sure of many things, not sure of who I am, how I arrived here, even - "how do I get back?", I wonder. Not physically. I can get back physically. But my soul, my heart - my will - I will never get back to that other place. I am no longer innocent. My innocence is dead. I am determined to keep the life inside me wrapped in that innocence, the way this blanket is wrapped around me.

Alive - the voice - so alive. No! Not gone! Here! He is a real person! I touched him; he was so big, so real. So strong. He so despised hatred. His heart, the delicate heart of a poet, was so filled with love - hope. Finally. Love. That's all he wanted. He told the world, "love is all you need." I believed him. He made me believe him! How dare he lie to me that way? "NO!" I scream. But it is a silent scream. I cannot hear my voice, yet in my head the sound is deafening. So loud that I put my hands on my ears to shut it out. But I can't shut it out - the screaming, it is incessant. Unrelenting. Why can't I make it stop? Stop! Please!

How can this be real? I see him in front of me, alive. So alive. Indestructible. I reach out my hand to touch the image in front of me. He is so real, standing there. But when I touch, I feel only space. Nothingness. Is that all he is now? Nothing? NO! He is something, everything. He is as big as the space I see in front of me. He fills the space. How can this be? There he is, look! Smiling at me. I remember. His voice. I remember. I remember everything. My mind will not let me forget. I cannot forget, but how can I survive, unless I forget? If I remember, I will surely die.

Yesterday. I used to believe in it. Yesterday, I remembered, and I smiled. I felt warm. The memories! Today, those same memories, they are like ice water, through my veins, replacing the blood. In one moment, it has all changed.

The ocean's voice is growing louder. Come here, come to me. I will take the pain away. I will make you forget. If you step inside me, you will feel nothing. Run, run to me! Run and never look back. Be brave!

I get up - I am drawn towards the sound. Yes, yes, I say. You can make this hurting stop? Promise me you will make it stop, and I shall run to you. Become part of you. Yes. Wait, here I come! I need to disappear into its enormity. So small. That is me. So small, but not small enough. If I could make myself smaller, invisible, maybe it would go away. Yes! I run now, my legs are carrying me, but I feel as if I am flying. Flying towards the water - flying towards peace. At the edge of the water, I stop. I feel a kick inside my belly. Stop, mommy. I'm here. I don't want to go in there! I want to stay here, with you. It's cold in there, mommy! In here, with you, it's so warm. You will always keep me warm. Won't you? I need you, mommy. Please, be brave! You'll see - I know - just wait - one more minute and you will see.

It hits me like a slap, an enormous slap, in my face then. No, that is not brave. That is being a coward. Selfish. So selfish. Here I am, talking about protection. If I run to the ocean now, if I let it save me, who will save this life inside me? Who will protect it? Death is so senseless to me. It is so final. But is it? No. I cannot hear those words now. Death is not final. It is simply the doorway into the next world. I must believe in that. If I believe in that, perhaps I can summon up the strength to go on. Face tomorrow. If not for me, then for this life inside me.

I hear something, then. The sound, I know that sound. A beautiful soothing sound. The ocean is singing to me again, but this time it is the voice of an angel. His voice. My security blanket. It tells me, be strong. You cannot give up. Please. I will show you. You will see. One life ends - and another begins. Watch, just wait and watch.

I feel something, something strong. It overpowers me, paralyzes me for a moment. I cannot move away from it, it has me in its grip, like a vice. I know then. This life growing inside me. One life ends, and another begins. When a soul leaves one body, where can it go but to another body? And I know. He is here. He will always be here. His soul - is my baby's soul. A part of me.

I touch my belly again. I will protect you. This time, I couldn't. But now, I have another chance. I will always protect you. Your soul. I will never let that soul become damaged again. I will take care of you now, I will give you the love that you gave me - without your realizing it.

This child, growing inside me. My child. It is home to your soul now. Now and forever. Thank you! I shout, but again, the shouts are in my head. It's okay, though. I hear the shouts. You hear the shouts. It will be all right. I will make it, because you are here.

One life ends - and another begins.


The Passer By
by Sam McLean

A raindrop falls,
So graceful,
From the sky.

So often has he seen this,
The passer bye
It becomes a fact of life,
The intrigue is vanquished,
Imagination lost,
To a sea of repetition.

No more does he sit and wonder,
Where it comes from,
Where it goes.

A raindrop falls,
Shimmers in the sun's light...

And the mind breaks free,
Bursts through the veil of blindness,
A new light shines in the eye,
Of the passer bye

A drop of silk,
Gleams impossibly,
Against the morning sky.
Time is frozen,
In the mind,
Of the passer bye

Cured of normality,
He sees the light,
Of imagination.

In the drop,
So minute and unimportant,
Seas stretch for an eternity,
Skies so blue,
Float effortlessly on the water,
A thousand hearts beat,
A thousand minds think,
A thousand tiny pens are set to paper.

An eye so blue,
He sees in this drop,
And land starts to form,
Birds, to fly,
Fish to swim,
And in this drop,
He sees a man,
Standing on the sidewalk,
In the pouring rain,
Staring.
In the mind
Of the passer bye

He seems so out of place,
Surrounded by busyness,
Staring, realising life.
Awoken from his deep sleep.
And a knowing spark, appears in the eye
Of The Passer Bye


Lennon's Life
by Kristi Phillips

In 1940...
The war raged on,
While Julia gave birth to a baby boy.
That boy was you.
Five short years later, you cried,
"Mummy, don't go! Daddy come home!"
But Mummy left and Daddy didn't come home.
So, your Aunt Mimi and Uncle George looked after you.

In the 1950's...
You grew up fast.
Uncle George has passed on.
But your mother comes back into your life.
Rock 'n' Roll hits the scene,
And you want to play guitar like everyone else.
So, you get one and Aunt Mimi says words that you'll never forget,
"The guitar's alright for a hobby, but you'll never make a living out of it."
Little did she know.
Your mother teaches you banjo chords.
Even though it isn't the right way to play a guitar,
You are still satisfied.
Soon enough you finally have your own band-The Quarrymen.
You don't like school at all, and would rather play rock 'n' roll.
One summer day, the Quarrymen are scheduled to play at the garden fete.
And you play there and have a good time.
On that day, a younger boy notices you up on stage,
Singing the wrong lyrics to "Come Go With Me."
After your performance, you go to the church hall.
A friend introduces you to that boy.
His name is Paul McCartney.
Tragedy strikes your life.
Your mother has left you and will not return.
Ran over by an off-duty policeman.
Through all your pain and sorrow you find love,
In rock 'n' roll, and a college girl named Cynthia Powell.

In the 1960's...
You have new people in your band.
And you've changed the name to,
THE BEATLES.
You and the other Beatles go to Hamburg and have a wild time.
You think, "Are we ever gonna make it?"
With Pete Best out and Ringo Starr in, you sure will.
Along the way another friend of yours leaves you, Stuart.
You know that you loved him, you said that once.
Soon, you discover Cynthia's going to have a baby,
So, you did the "right thing" by getting married.
A baby boy is born, and his name is Julian.
Beatlemania has arrived, Britain loves you,
Soon America will, too.
The Beatles are bigger than Elvis!
You made it!
At the beginning, you and Paul wrote songs together.
After awhile, you both drift apart and write your own material.
But the Beatles are still together.
Drugs enter the scene.
Wild new colors, shapes, and people enter your life.
One particular person is Yoko Ono.
Through this purple haze, the Beatles are drifting apart.
You fall in love with Yoko, and the band becomes second on your list.
You invite her to your house and discover tapes.
At dawn, you discover each other.
That morning you knew that she was THE ONE.
Cynthia leaves and Yoko stays.
The Beatles break up and you are all heading in opposite directions.

In the 1970's...
Primal Scream Therapy enters your life.
Politics and Peace, too.
You move from England to New York.
Nixon doesn't like it, he wants to deport you.
But you fight to stay.
Yoko is tired of you, and sends you off with May Pang.
You and May decide to go to L.A.
While you are there, you run drunk through the streets with Harry Nilsson,
Have crazy recording sessions with Phil Spector.
Through all that roughness, you fall in love--with May.
Eighteen months later, Yoko wants you back.
And you go to her.
On your 35th birthday, another baby boy is born.
His name is Sean.
Writing and recording sessions are put on hold,
While you become a househusband.
You look after the baby, watched him grow, and learn to bake bread.
After five years, you want to record again, so you do.

In 1980...
No one knew that this would be your last album,
And year with Yoko, Sean, and the world.
In December, you are rudely taken away.
We still mourn your tragic loss today,
But we must remember that you are in a peaceful place.
What a life you had and experienced.
We will never forget you,
Because all we have to do is Imagine...


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Disclaimer: All the items presented in this exhibit (drawings, paintings, poems, etc.) are used with permission. The contributor of each item has claimed that he/she is the legal owner of the item and therefore has the legal right to permit its use. Sam Choukri will not be held liable in the event that the contributor of an item is found not to have the legal right to permit the use of such item. If there is any dispute concerning the ownership of any item, it will be removed until the dispute is resolved.

 

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Produced by Sam Choukri
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Last updated on Aug 3, 2002