I know what I want. All through his life James Paul McCartney has been an ambitious 1950s Liverpool grammar school boy. He’s competitive, focused and, I’m certain, ruthless. His persona, his public persona, the one we all know, that’s a front. I don’t think it’s a conscious front, it’s a part of him as much as his hands are a part of him, but it’s something he’s developed through his life that he can deploy to get what he wants. Underneath all that breezy, winsome charm is a surgical ruthlessness that has kept him and his interests aligned. That’s what I want from this encounter. I want to get that on film.

Our half hour ticks by. I’m getting nothing different from what he’s given every other photographer for the last forty years. I finally just say it out loud:

“No, too much. Much too much. Do less. You’re an honest man. Be sure in your achievements.”

“What’s the matter? You don’t like a bit of whimsy?”

Outside, the second Gulf War is only a few days old.

“Not when there’s a war on, Paul.”

And like that, it’s all there. The thin layer of sea covering the edge of the beach fizzles into the sand and everything I believed to be concealed underneath is revealed.

The public McCartney we have known all our lives is gone, the eyes narrow and, the thing I remember most, his jawline tightens and clenches. For a few seconds his face has gone from soft marshmallow cherub to steel reinforced granite. Right there, for two frames, locked in silver nitrate, he hates me and I love him for it.

Chris Floyd

#WORTHTAKING