“George [Harrison] has made my difficult life more bearable in material as well as in spiritual ways. With our three young children, my wife and I were living in a cockroach-infested Manhattan tenement at the start of her five-year battle against cancer. But George enabled her to live out her life in rented suburban comfort by giving me a loan of $50,000 that he knew I could never possibly repay. Was that a sort of tribute to his own mother’s losing struggle against cancer? George’s mother, Louise, died of cancer in 1970. To me, George’s $50,000 ‘loan’ was an exhibition of saintliness unequalled by any rock superstar I knew.” - Al Aronowitz, The Blacklisted Journalist, Column Sixty-Two, 1 August 2001 [x]
* * *
“George had been a great friend and benefactor to my father, repeatedly rescuing our family with kindness over many years. He even extended his generosity to me, on a tough birthday, when I least expected it.
[…] ‘I have to make a stop before we can go home,’ he [Al Aronowitz] said. His comment worried me. My dad would often double park and leave us in the car, so it wouldn’t get towed away. Sometimes we waited for hours. I was instantly relieved when he added, 'We have to stop in and see George.’ We meant he wasn’t going to leave us in the car.
George Harrison’s Hotel on Central Park South was far less ostentatious than I ‘d expected for a Beatle. A doorman guarded the entrance from the icy winds. Dark, wood molding which accentuated the toasty, warm lobby ran around the floor, ceiling, and doors as well as around the two elevators.
The details of his hotel suite, however elegant, were insignificant compared to George’s presence. He was so kind that his warmth radiated outward like the sun. No other celebrity ever took the time to make me feel so special, as if he felt the same honor being with me, as I felt sharing his company. It was my fourteenth birthday, and I was spending part of my day with the one and only, George Harrison, and it changed everything. Just by sitting on the little sofa in his suite, I had forgotten how painful it was to see my mother in the hospital, or how cold I was from the ugly blue birthday shirt I’d insisted on wearing. In that moment, I didn’t need anything else.
That’s when George lifted a brown parcel tied with hemp twine, onto the glass coffee table in front of me. He’d lifted it by a handle, made from a wooden cylinder with thick copper wire threaded through the core. The wire looped at each end of the cylinder, to form hooks, which attached to the twine.
'I heard it’s your birthday,’ he said.
The words, 'To Brett, Happy Birthday. Love, George,’ had been written on the handle with a black, felt tip pen.
I was shocked. The detail of that note, written by his own hand, was enough. The contents of this mysterious box didn’t matter as much as the simple fact, that George Harrison cared enough to perform the premeditated act of purchasing a birthday gift for me, a fourteen-year-old. His gift meant I mattered.
Carefully, I opened the package in a state of disbelief, and was astonished to find a brand new Bolex 280 Super 8 mm movie camera with a macro zoom. To this day, the overwhelming love I felt from him lingers in my cells. George Harrison had become an angel, my angel, and thinking of him would always make me feel better.” - Brett Aronowitz, “Facing Death,” brettaronowitz.com [xx]
“Beverly … is dead.” It’s a cold thing to say but it’s a cold truth, and it isn’t said without guilt gripping at his insides. He’s not responsible for Beverly’s death – Hannibal is. But Will is responsible for Hannibal’s current freedom. He tries to ignore the shame that’s become familiar whenever he thinks of Hannibal.
“I’d suggest keeping her name out of your mouth. You didn’t know her.” And she shouldn’t be reduced to a reason to point fingers, like just another statistic on the board. She was more than just a victim. “She deserves better.”
He’s just not sure if he’s talking about her name in their mouth, or what he’s doing to bring her death to justice.
Because what he’s doing … sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.
“George once said to me, ‘I’m in the wrong job. I should have been a gardener really. It took me five years to become famous and 45 years trying to become a nobody.’” - Joe Brown on George Harrison [x]
“I’m not really a career person. I’m a gardener, basically.” - George Harrison, USA Today, 26 January 2001 [x]
Update: this is how I draw. (+bonus bloodshot eyes)
Let me send a HUUUGE thank you again for all those who have commissioned me + bought merch + donated and shared my stuff! Getting this tablet is a dream come true and it was your help that made it possible. And of course the same amount of appreciation goes to my awesome husband, Cam for giving me a financial break and supporting me in achieving my goal. I love you, babe! <3
This is my absolute first time drawing on a Cintiq so I’m still getting used to it. I set up all my hotkeys for PS and I’m trying to memorize them atm. I cannot live without my hotkeys. :’) It’s really weird, really new but it’s also fucking cool! I really don’t have an excuse for crappy art from now on. :P
“I am not George. I am not really George. I am this living thing that goes on, always has been, always will be, but at this time, I happen to be in this body.” - George Harrison in a Time Out feature by Brian Chase, 19 October 1988 [x]
'Like it?' (Clint is giving me the most hateful look right now)
Mara grins at the box and looks up at the archer biting her lip. “You know… if I had to guess I’d say you’d actually taken a liking to me Clint Barton—” she grins as she glides past him into the free room of the cabin.
She’s not blushing, but her eyes are blown wide. “Fits like a glove—” she says quietly, crooking her finger and gesturing him closer.