There's Richness in the Effort to Try

Meeting one of John Lennon’s lovers, magazine updates, and musings on creative risks

Me by Dillon Behling

Written by Angie Stevens | September 18

Last night, we stood face to face, May Pang and I. Her soft eyes–– that still to this day, more than 40 years later, tear up like clockwork at the thought of the love she and John Lennon shared––rested on me, and my youth. Here I was, this 22-year-old girl (same age as she, when she waded so deeply into life with him and the happenings of the rock ‘n’ roll scene of the ‘70s) standing in a sea of silver-haired folk, telling her how utterly touched she felt learning her story.

It was opening night at EDNA Contemporary Gallery in town, and the crowd and I had just come from a film screening of The Lost Weekend: A Love Story at the iconic Palm Theatre. Now, we stood among white walls lined with May’s photographs, snapped throughout her time with the wonderfully brilliant Lennon.

“In a town teeming with college students, I am very surprised to be the only young kid here,” I told May, accentuating my words and raising my voice, to cut through the humming chatter around us and out of a weird disappointment for my age group.

“It makes me uneasy, but I sure am glad to be here, and have such cultured, creative parents who shaped me to see the absolute value in this time period of music, art, life..” I went on.

My mum and dad were situated on either side of me, leaning in to listen. A part of me knew they were both proud of this simple interaction I was initiating with her. They’ve always pushed me to lean into the arts, seek wisdom from the greats, and protect it like the most valuable currency.

On a whim, they purchased one of her prints, titled “Ha, it’s a bunch of Shite!” It rested in May’s hands, about to be signed. In it, John is flipping off the camera, donning a worn-in blue jean jacket with pendants ‘round his neck. His round sunglasses are black as night, his smile full of youth. It was taken at Burbank Studios in 1974 on an SX-70 Polaroid––a beauty of a camera I’m lucky to also own.

My parents were the first of the night to actually buy a print off the wall; most were finger-tapping their cellular devices, yelling at one another, “Hunny, wouldya take a picture of me,” as they posed in front of May’s seat.

A woman asked my mum if she wanted a photo getting her newly-purchased print signed by May.

“No, no,” she replied, half-laughing, half-serious. “The only photo I want is this one,” she said, pointing to the print.

The old woman nodded, sneering almost, as if it was hard to believe. I stood off to the side, chuckling to myself…. Oh how special this is, I mused. My parents aren’t rich, but have spent their whole lives pouring into great art, and maintaining that intentional connection to it. Nowhere in their minds do they need to memorialize every moment via iPhone photos, or post it to the media world. All they were thinking was what mat and frame would look good with the print, and what wall shall it hang on in the house.

I couldn’t help but look around the room and wonder: When this generation hits the fan, is the legacy and memory and cultural vivacity of these bygone days going to slowly fizzle out with them?

Students passed by each second, peering in through the glass and continuing on, not thinking twice. Away from downtown they waded in huge groups. And there I was, unable to shake the night. It felt too energetically charged, having spoken to such a beaming woman, who kicked it with Lennon, Bowie, Elton John, the McCartneys and Ringo and even Yoko with her interesting, overpowering ways….. I am touched to say the least.

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Somewhere, someplace, I read a line that said: “There’s beauty in dedication and richness in the effort to try.” At once, I scribbled it in one of my numerous journals that lay strewn around my room.

That’s good, I thought, watching the ink from my calligraphy pen grow along the dotted lines of the page into an illegible cursive phrase. I must have been too indulgent, jumping back into the written piece, that I forgot to jot down the author..

But it struck a chord inside me; I’ve always admired others of my generation––or anyone these days for that matter––who are taking creative risks. I mean starting from zero: lunging into genuine ideas and imbuing personal flair born from intention, curiosity, and self-expression.

The ‘70s remain unmatched as a time when music, film, and artistic endeavours were born in vivacious quantities, and youth dove headfirst into daring, punk countercultures. It seems a bygone era, when so many are focused nowadays on posting perfection and coming off as cream-of-the-crop in every arena of their work, creative, and personal lives.

C’mon! We have to fail a little, or at least kill the front we all seem to have and present ideas in their prepubescent, vulnerable form! I wasn’t thinking any of this when I decided to jump in the deep end and create a print publication by myself––I wasn’t thinking much of anything, actually. But out at the other end, I am reaping the rich bounty of my efforts. Bounty less in green paper form and more in community engagement, lovely connections, and messages that signal to me that my work has touched somebody and been well-received.

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I hope to return to the page every week, and pop in your email inbox in the form of a newsletter to say hello. Today, I’ve got some exciting updates to share.

First up, I’ve officially run out of copies from my first batch order. Not knowing how many to buy, or if people would be interested in the magazine, I ordered 150. It warms my soul that I’ve managed to get this first issue into many weathered hands. I am ordering a second batch, and will continue to take payments on a pre-order basis until they get to my doorstep in San Luis Obispo.

And speaking of SLO, it’s exciting to have some copies stocked in a few locations around town. Head to Mountain Air, Satellite of Love, and Divers up in Morro Bay to get your hands on a copy of Issue 001!

Wayward Mag is kept company by swaths of vintage clothing and collectibles at Satellite of Love on Monterey Street in town.

Also, my boss over at Trails Magazine ran a short Q&A with Wayward last week in the publication’s email newsletter, The Hiker Box. I dive deeper into my reasoning behind starting my own print magazine, my experience doing the whole thing myself, and my goals for the future. He also stocked some copies on the Trails Magazine contributor bookshop, which you can find here.

It led me into deep reflection on the process and my passions––a very needed thing as I will soon speak about these topics in greater depth during a show at Cruise Control Gallery in Cambria on Monday the 21st.

Wahooo, 6 to 8 o’clock,, come one, come all!

Charlie Smith, the brilliant mind behind the gallery space, was kind and trusting enough to include me and my young, budding publication in the event, alongside Jamie Brisick and Alex Wilson at The Surfer’s Journal, and Ryan Baesemann at County Highway. We will converse, share stories of the print publication world, and answer questions from the folks in attendance.

I have long admired both The Surfer’s Journal and County Highway, so to bounce ideas off of them and bring some of the stubborn, youthful energy that led me to create Wayward Magazine, is quite exciting to say the least.

There’s more to say, but I’ll save it for Monday, and perhaps a reflection for next week’s letter.

Happy Friday,

Angie