Casualty of Glamour (part ii)
Updated: Aug 30
Three friends, dressed in black, entered the hotel bar for drinks after work.
As they sipped espresso martinis, and surveyed the glamorous views of Toronto's iconic skyline, music gave the room a calming vibe. Their conversation drifted to industry talk...
...and the countless troubles embedded within.
“I still can’t book a lead.” The working actress sighed, raising her drink towards her lips again. “And it’s all because they only want girls who play along!”
Next, the actress cursed under her breath, loud enough for her friends to hear the phrase. But quiet enough to prevent any hotel staff from eavesdropping. “Fuck the casting couch.”
She looked around at her friends, anticipating a response.
“Pshhh,” said the deep artist, shaking her head. “You think you've got it bad.”
The actress raised an eye-brow.
She continues, “Last month the band flew me out for the album cover...”
The table is now hanging onto her every word. The room thickens with tension.
“Every piece of cover art I drew and submitted got me the... same fucking note.”
“What do you mean?” said the fashion model, her voice laced with concerned curiosity.
She knew about the band but had no idea why their deal fell apart.
The deep artist shrugged and said... “They wanted an image of a girl. Naked in the woods.”
“What’s wrong with that?” said the fashion model quickly, defensively even. “I did something similar in a shoot once.” She leaned forward slightly. “There's nothing wrong with a young woman, posing naked in the woods. But their note was always: make her younger.”
A hush of silence descended on their table. For a few moments nobody spoke.
The mystery behind the album cover art drama dominated their group-chat for two straight weeks. What's more, this was the first time any of her friends heard the reason it fell apart.
The working actress spoke first. “That's fucked.”
The model chimed in quietly. “Yeah.”
The deep artist took another swig. “I'm not AI.”
They locked eyes briefly.
Next the actress added... ever so softly, “Didn't you tell me their drummer sent you a DM?”
She nodded, then sipped liquid courage before saying, “Promotional shoot. TFP. I said no once I found out. And once I realized what they’re actually after...”
Her eyes felt dark and glassy for a moment. She looked at the painter. Then she suddenly re-gained her poise, finishing her sentence carefully. “I’m so sorry you went through that.”
“I’m sorry they tried to get free pics of you.” said the painter.
“Happens a lot,” the model added. “You get excited, then find out nobody’s paying. I’ve been thinking about music lately—” “Toronto doesn’t need another content creator,” the actress cut in. “And after what we just heard, music feels like jumping from one fire into another.”
The painter looked between them. “I don’t have a problem with it. Just be careful. You’re too easy to take advantage of out there.” The model nodded. A round of re-fills made their way over. The bartender smiled wryly at the model as she sipped on the martini before leaving.
“So what’s next?” said the model.
“When I got back I heard about that gallery show. They fired the old director, brought in someone new from Scarborough. A woman. Actually interesting work for once...“
The two performers listened intently as the deep artist continued singing her praises. Since she was the only creative in their friend group who was a full-time artist, her words carried extra weight.
A tall man at the next table leaned over.
Well-dressed, steady gaze. “You three have a certain wavelength,” he said.
“Roommates or just close?”
“Best friends,” the model answered. “All artists.”
He smiled. “Mind if I sit?” They nodded. He sat.
Mentioned connections at TIFF. The actress engaged immediately, questions coming fast.
As he expressed a reverence for cinema’s contributions to culture, society and humanity, he praised how Toronto’s diverse culture is consistently reflected in Canadian arts like a mirror.
At one point he asked for her Instagram. She handed over her phone. He pulled up his profile and passed it back. Her eyes widened as she scrolled through premiere shots and reels.
She followed him without looking up.
“Toronto’s full of people chasing the connections that make their fantasies real,” he said. “But there are still limits that keep talented people from getting the respect they deserve.”
The actress finally looked up, as if woken from a dream.
“It’s tough here. I’ve done some Amazon stuff, but it never feels like it adds up.”
The model nodded. “Same in fashion. Shows come and go. Mostly just ads. Maintenance.”
“Content,” the actress said.
“And it pays too well to sell out,” the model added.
“My agent tried to push UGC on me. Hard pass.”
The man listened, then spoke with quiet authority. “There’s a difference. Work made without a deeper message is content. Trying to earn respect without developing the craft... or figuring out what you actually want to say... makes it hard for anyone to care. Dig under the surface. The people I work with look past the glamour pretty quickly.” The painter nodded. “I’m a painter. The work has to resonate or it’s nothing. I’m shy in person, but with a brush I’m not.”
“Two kinds of art,” the man said. “Performance and visionary.”
“Visionary being the quieter kind?” the painter asked. “Behind the scenes. Painting, directing, writing.” “And performance is the opposite,” the model said with supreme confidence.
“Yin and yang,” the actress offered. “Exactly. And the more you sit with that, the clearer it becomes how much artist development matters. I’ve met actors who work constantly and never level up because they don’t know what they’re trying to express. Any press is good press, they think. A respected performer is different...” He trailed off... for just a moment.
“What’s a respected performer?” the actress asked immediately.
He smiled, letting the question hang for another moment.
They were asking the right questions. But the night was just beginning.
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