Today, I hit rock bottom. No, I didn't flunk a class or smoke a whole pack of cigarettes in 13 minutes; I didn't OD on heroin, commit a sex felony or get a DUI... worse, much worse...
I skipped out on an audition.
Granted, it was only paying $50/hour for what was sure to be a half-hour gig, but still, usually I'm up for wasting $11.53 in gas and three hours of my life prepping, prettying up, and passively sitting through rush hour traffic for the 1/1000 of a chance that a) nothing about me offends the casting director, b) the director doesn't think I remind him of his psychotic ex-girlfriend, c) the producer doesn't prefer blondes, and d) they collectively offer me this part that'll effectively secure my place in oblivion.
Right now? I just don't care.
Why not? Well, it's that time again. No, not the delightful monthly rendezvous with my menses -- I'm talking about the cyclical emotional recession every struggling artist, and pseudo-artist alike, must go through in this screwed up endeavor to make our dreams come true. In other words, a slump.
This is when it physically hurts to be optimistic, when you're too tired to smile, and when you just don't give a freakin' hoot. Ironically, I've actually booked a couple of jobs with this crappy attitude, so take THAT, self-help books!
Now, I know it's not just me and that I shouldn't check myself into a psych ward (for this, at least). I once met a working, professional actor who said that he would periodically quit the biz, then come back to it when he was good and ready. Perhaps a good week or two off from all this constant rejection, b.s. and deflation of hope would do the trick.
Only, I just took a vacation (from which I feel I need a vacation), my manager dropped me over a month ago and I still haven't booked that amazingly fantastical, Oscar-bound feature film role that warrants me shouting, "IN YOUR FACE!" (in the privacy of my own room, of course), and the void left by my recently-deceased, darling grandmother hasn't exactly provided me with the energy to go out and get 'em. In other words, it's been a while since I've worked.
Quitting just isn't an option. Besides, I know I would only come crawling back to it like a spineless floozy who's just been kicked out onto the streets by her fat, domineering pimp.
So, I'm going to have to ride this out. My drug of choice? Sh*tty food combinations and sitcom-escapism.
Eventually, my body will tire of all these PopSecret butter popcorn bags, microwavable enchiladas, cans of grape soda and packages of Double Stuf Oreos. And there's only so many episodes of "The Office" left to watch. But for now, nom nom in my tummy and plop plop on my couch.
Besides, according to Isaac Newton and his glorious apple, what goes down must come up. Oh. Wait. No. According to him and that wretched apple, what is up must come down.
Well, forget that. In my experience, life has proven to be a never-ending sine wave. When you're riding high, it's inevitable that you'll soon tumble downhill and wind up in a trough. Conversely, when you're stuck in a rut, it's a long, uphill climb back to the top, but you eventually make it. And you relish that joyous feeling for all of two and a half days until the next ditch swallows you whole. Or you die. But that's beside the point and that hasn't happened to me yet.
My point is, I really shouldn't be worrying about anything right now. If anything, I should be excited because, according to my theory, something good is on its way. I'm down in the dumps, which means I've no other direction to head in but that of success! If this were a post about how insanely elated I was that I just booked a prime time television series, however, it'd be a different story altogether. I'd be worrying about them breaking their contract and replacing me after only one episode or some imminent, horrible car accident or my hair catching on fire or a cockroach crawling into my mouth in the middle of my slumber and laying 800 eggs...the list goes on and on, and I've got a pretty wild imagination so it's a pretty long list.
So, for now, I'm going to sit and smile about my future happiness until my burgeoning pot belly prompts me to actually get up and go attain that future happiness.
Time for another Oreo.
P.S.: I know it may sound as if I'm rotten and have nothing better to complain about in the absence of real problems, but I am extremely grateful for the people in my life and for where I am today. I'm just a bitch sometimes and I like to whine. This month-and-a-half-long headache and the incredibly energetic, incessantly stomping Chinese kids who live in the apartment above me aren't helping much either. I like Mexican food. The end.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Two-Headed Nature of Headshots
I don't know about you, but I have a love-hate relationship with headshots. It's just part of the gig, right? Commercial, theatrical, character, smile, no smile, slight smirk, even bigger smile, closed-mouth smile, unsure of yourself smile, sexy smoldering look, innocent school girl/boy look, happily surprised look, trying to stand out by doing something quirky look, dumb annoying look, I'm getting tired of this look, are any of these even coming out well look, I'm so sick of smiling look, I'm dying for a hamburger look, seriously this is the last look look.
You get all dolled up, go out and by some brightly-colored new clothes with no patterns or logos that are still eye-catching and flattering (not an easy task), spend a fortune on hair that you could never do yourself and make-up that you would never wear normally, empty out your bank account for a photographer who has celebrity clients and the attention span of a Jack Russell Terrier on speed and whose shabby garage studio looks deceivingly amazing in his photographs, who's used to working with seasoned pros and who, when he asks why you looks so uptight in your photos, has no idea that you've never felt more nervous and uncomfortable in your life except for the last time you did this...all in an attempt to capture the "real you" in a perfect headshot -- that million-dollar photo that'll give casting directors that tingly feeling in their no-no regions and that'll have you gracing the cover of Entertainment Weekly in no time.
The problem is...wait...I mean, the problems are: 1) that's not what you really look like, 2) there are 2,117 people who look exactly like the you in that headshot (who we all know is not really you), 3) there are 2,117 people who look exactly like the real you in real life in case you actually DO get called in, 4) the top casting directors have their list of top agencies from which they make their selections. You are most likely NOT on this list, unless you're sexier than a nipple, have been doing this for a really long time, have a magic penis/vagina that has propelled you to the top, have rich parents who have rich friends who know powerfully rich people who make amazingly rich things happen, or, 5) are the devil. So, all that hard work and hairspray might as well have been applied to an ass-shot. A big, shiny picture of your ass where your smiling mug should be WOULD garner lots of attention. Hmmmm....
But you wouldn't do that. No. Because you have big dreams and a heart of gold and you believe in yourself like they do in children's books. You're like a freshly-baked cupcake straight out of the oven who's been placed out on the counter but is determined to stay warm. AND YOU WILL. At least, you feel like you can on most days. Some days. Other days, you might wish someone would come along and place you in their acid-lined stomach, digest you, then poople you out just to take all this pain away. But that's only certain days. Bad days. Sober days. Well, Monday through Friday. And Saturday nights.
At any rate, you shake hands with the photographer and thank the hip and trendy make-up and hair gal and stick your photo CD in your purse. You drive home full of hope and excitement and enough foundation to last a week. You stumble into your studio apartment, struggling to carry the seventeen outfits you brought with you. Then, when you're all settled in, you happily insert the photo CD into your barely functioning laptop and prepare to be dazzled by the most gorgeous photos you've ever seen in your life.
Aaaaannnndddd maybe this first look wasn't my best. After all, I was still warming up... Oh, gosh, do I really look like that from that angle? I guess I DO have a good side... Ooo, forgot to suck it in, but nothing a little photoshopping can't fix... Am I supposed to look this scared?...I wish I wore my push-up bra...Why does smiling with my eyes instead of my mouth make me look like an angry trout? ...Dammit. I need a nose job.
You wearily close your laptop and collapse into a heap of headshot-sorrow, exhausted from searching and re-searching for a good photo. Just one! It's abysmal. But before you jump off a twenty-seven story building, you realize that it's actually better this way. It's actually more convenient for you that most of your pictures turned out looking like crap. This way, it'll be easier to find that one special, standout picture -- you know, the one that'll make everyone propose to you while throwing wads of cash in your face.
You go through the photos again and again and again and again until your eyes are wobbling and finally find seven good shots. Out of four hundred and fifty-three. This one's a little fuzzy, so it's out. Down to six. This one's too close to my face. Out. This one's showing too much of my ear...but we can photoshop that. If I tilt my head to the right and squint my eyes, this one looks great, so it's a keeper. I look like an asshole in this one, so no. Okay so how many is that now? Four. Perfect!
Now you only have to ask for a bank loan to pay for retouching, printing and posting them up on LA Casting and Actors Access. But you're happy, because you look great in these headshots. They are fantastic, amazing, invaluable pieces of art. They really are. At least, you think they are until the agent you're interviewing with says they're terrible and hands you a list of recommended photographers. And she's right, too. I mean, if I stare at this one long enough, I end up looking like a donkey.
...Soooooooooo, guess it's time for new headshots again! How exciting!
You get all dolled up, go out and by some brightly-colored new clothes with no patterns or logos that are still eye-catching and flattering (not an easy task), spend a fortune on hair that you could never do yourself and make-up that you would never wear normally, empty out your bank account for a photographer who has celebrity clients and the attention span of a Jack Russell Terrier on speed and whose shabby garage studio looks deceivingly amazing in his photographs, who's used to working with seasoned pros and who, when he asks why you looks so uptight in your photos, has no idea that you've never felt more nervous and uncomfortable in your life except for the last time you did this...all in an attempt to capture the "real you" in a perfect headshot -- that million-dollar photo that'll give casting directors that tingly feeling in their no-no regions and that'll have you gracing the cover of Entertainment Weekly in no time.
The problem is...wait...I mean, the problems are: 1) that's not what you really look like, 2) there are 2,117 people who look exactly like the you in that headshot (who we all know is not really you), 3) there are 2,117 people who look exactly like the real you in real life in case you actually DO get called in, 4) the top casting directors have their list of top agencies from which they make their selections. You are most likely NOT on this list, unless you're sexier than a nipple, have been doing this for a really long time, have a magic penis/vagina that has propelled you to the top, have rich parents who have rich friends who know powerfully rich people who make amazingly rich things happen, or, 5) are the devil. So, all that hard work and hairspray might as well have been applied to an ass-shot. A big, shiny picture of your ass where your smiling mug should be WOULD garner lots of attention. Hmmmm....
But you wouldn't do that. No. Because you have big dreams and a heart of gold and you believe in yourself like they do in children's books. You're like a freshly-baked cupcake straight out of the oven who's been placed out on the counter but is determined to stay warm. AND YOU WILL. At least, you feel like you can on most days. Some days. Other days, you might wish someone would come along and place you in their acid-lined stomach, digest you, then poople you out just to take all this pain away. But that's only certain days. Bad days. Sober days. Well, Monday through Friday. And Saturday nights.
At any rate, you shake hands with the photographer and thank the hip and trendy make-up and hair gal and stick your photo CD in your purse. You drive home full of hope and excitement and enough foundation to last a week. You stumble into your studio apartment, struggling to carry the seventeen outfits you brought with you. Then, when you're all settled in, you happily insert the photo CD into your barely functioning laptop and prepare to be dazzled by the most gorgeous photos you've ever seen in your life.
Aaaaannnndddd maybe this first look wasn't my best. After all, I was still warming up... Oh, gosh, do I really look like that from that angle? I guess I DO have a good side... Ooo, forgot to suck it in, but nothing a little photoshopping can't fix... Am I supposed to look this scared?...I wish I wore my push-up bra...Why does smiling with my eyes instead of my mouth make me look like an angry trout? ...Dammit. I need a nose job.
You wearily close your laptop and collapse into a heap of headshot-sorrow, exhausted from searching and re-searching for a good photo. Just one! It's abysmal. But before you jump off a twenty-seven story building, you realize that it's actually better this way. It's actually more convenient for you that most of your pictures turned out looking like crap. This way, it'll be easier to find that one special, standout picture -- you know, the one that'll make everyone propose to you while throwing wads of cash in your face.
You go through the photos again and again and again and again until your eyes are wobbling and finally find seven good shots. Out of four hundred and fifty-three. This one's a little fuzzy, so it's out. Down to six. This one's too close to my face. Out. This one's showing too much of my ear...but we can photoshop that. If I tilt my head to the right and squint my eyes, this one looks great, so it's a keeper. I look like an asshole in this one, so no. Okay so how many is that now? Four. Perfect!
Now you only have to ask for a bank loan to pay for retouching, printing and posting them up on LA Casting and Actors Access. But you're happy, because you look great in these headshots. They are fantastic, amazing, invaluable pieces of art. They really are. At least, you think they are until the agent you're interviewing with says they're terrible and hands you a list of recommended photographers. And she's right, too. I mean, if I stare at this one long enough, I end up looking like a donkey.
...Soooooooooo, guess it's time for new headshots again! How exciting!
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