So, let's be honest.
I've gotten through almost a good week with with the Moms and it hasn't been too bad. All of that was about to change.
I, however, felt like I hit the MOTHER LOAD (no pun intended), when I found a voucher for a photo shoot with hair and make up for 20 pound. Translated, that's about 35 bucks, give or take, and COMPLETELY unheard of. UN -HEARD!
So, that Monday morning, I packed up a few different things to wear... okay, pretty much anything nice I had with me, which wasn't anything, and started on the trek through the London Underground to find the Islington studio.
I'd never been to Islington. In all honesty, there really isn't much to report. It was just gray. If you think London and think gray, you have Islington.
I arrived a little early for my appointment, so I spent the time in the cafe across the street. Did I mention it was cold? No? It was cold. So, I had a hot cocoa. Yes, I know that cocoa is a dark liquid and will therefore give me and my fish belly whiteness dark circles. But hey, it can't happen that soon, can it?
A few minutes before the hour arrived, and I trudged my ass and my bag up the 5 stories of stairs. I was thanking God that momster decided she'd rather pass the morning in the hotel in complete comfort. I couldn't imagine her climbing this particular mountain.
I get into the studio, meet the photographer and the make up artist and let them know I was looking for 'Spotlight Photos', which is what headshots are called over there. "Spotlight" is the website where performing artists present themselves and their representation. Much like Actor's Access over here, if you know (or care) what that is.
The 'studio' was this guy's 5th floor walk up apartment. His rollaway bed was tucked up in the corner of the kitchen covered by a plastic sheet. The makeup station was a make shift counter - the stove with a plank of wood and a mirror on it.
The studio floor was a hard wood space with a computer station and some back drops hung up on scaffolding. Now, I'm not going to judge. No one knows what it's like to be a starving artist better than I, and to this guy's credit, he seemed to be doing more or less okay for himself. At least he was able to live, right? I thought it might be considered rude to take pictures of the place.
The make up artist was from Spain. I don't want to know where the brushes came from. Nor did I think it was a good idea to dwell on how old they were or the last time they were washed. Better not to ask.
I know Spain has gone through a hard time. I get that. I now know that the Spanish refer to it is a 'tragedy'. I get that too. What I don't get is why this woman, who claims that she has worked in Mexico and on a ton of Spanish Soap Operas was using make up techniques from the '80s. And don't even get me started on the hair! Don't!
Of course, knowing that she was here trying desperately to survive by only making a few pound per hour, I didn't have the heart to scream at her artistry. No, I'm not an ugly American. And besides, maybe the pics will be good, right? RIGHT???? Suuuurrreeee they will. Anyway, we went through the process of taking pics, changing tops and taking more pics. This lasted about 20 minutes. Fair enough. Then... pics revealed.
There really is no other word for it. I looked like a giant, red, moldy tomato. It was such an horrific blow to my ego. I had to stand there and tell this guy how awesome his work was whilst looking at this fat, old, red... thing. Let me tell you how bad it was: Part of the package was one photo printed. I picked the lesser of all the evils and presented it to mom. Months later I was visiting and saw the thing in a frame. I expressed my disgust at it and asked her to get it out of sight. She willingly complied saying she didn't like it either. Gag, gag, gag, gag, gag.
Whatever! It was over. I'm fat, and old, and ugly and will never get a job. Just f'ing great. I packed up my crap, tipped the Spanish girl and the crappy photog, tucked my tail between my legs and considered flinging myself down the five flights of stairs. I settled, instead for going here:
The Shakespear Pub. I ran across this place looking for the tube. I had decided to walk a different route on the way back to the hotel. I was so numb from the humiliating experience, I wasn't thinking straight. Or maybe that was the cold. Did I mention it was cold? It was. I didn't care. It had to have been about 11am, and the pub just opened. I didn't know if it was providence, coincidence, or just the spirit of the Bard being a dick and laughing at me. Whatever it was, I went in. I bellied my belly up to the bar and ordered an Irish Coffee. It's hot. It's alcohol, it's sweet, I'm depressed, leave me alone.
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| Look at the smirk on that rat bastard! |
I sat there a few minutes and drank my drink trying not to relive the horrors of the previous hour. After a while, I got up, used the loo, asked directions and clumped my gargantuan body to the nearest tube.
On the way to the tube, I took this picture. I don't know or care what it was, but It amused me at the time. Anyway, the tube let me out at Goodge Station. I know Goodge. It's right by RADA. That's good, I had to find out what was up with my class anyway. I had booked the next level of my classes and was curious as to how to go about taking my certification exams. I decided to stop in and ask. After about an hour of the run around, and making seven phone calls (WHY I had to make phone calls as opposed to WALKING to an office, I don't know), I was told the class was cancelled. Cancelled. Huh. Cancelled. Thanks for letting me know. What a waste! No, they didn't keep my money if you were wondering, but that's not the point. The class was CANCELLED. Shit.I thought this post was going to be small. Guess not. I'll stop here for now and let you digest this. Plus Blogger is being a jerk and messing with my pristine format.There's more to come.
