The Glitter and the Grit: Thoughts Sparked by All That Glitters by Orlando Whitfield
I’ve decided to keep a record of my reading in 2025. Partly to give it a sense of purpose and partly to keep myself accountable. Perhaps it will even spark some interesting recommendations for you! Marcus Aurelius cautions against excessive reading in his Meditations, but I suspect it takes on a different meaning in 2025. In CE 171 (CLXXI), distractions were likely fewer, so reading for him may symbolise the kind of overstimulation we face in the modern age.
By journalling my thoughts on the books I read, I hope to make the experience more meaningful—something more than a mere distraction (as reading has often been for me in the past). With that in mind, here are my thoughts on book number three of 2025: All That Glitters by Orlando Whitfield.
All That Glitters is a dazzling blend of thriller, memoir, and art history. It’s a story of fraud, friendship, and fine art that has left me pondering not only the art world but also the parallels to my own experiences in the theatre industry. Whitfield’s book takes us into the opulent yet murky world of high art, introducing us to fascinating artists like Christopher Wool, Rudolf Stingel, Lucien Smith, and Christopher Page—whose work I found especially captivating. It also reignited my appreciation for Paula Rego, particularly her illustrations for Jane Eyre, which I’ve always admired for their intensity and emotional depth.
What struck me most, though, was how Whitfield portrays the art world as a double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s a playground for creativity and human connection. On the other, it’s a high-stakes game where art is commodified, often stripped of its intrinsic value. Orlando himself grows disillusioned with the business side of art and embarks on an apprenticeship in paper conservation—a job requiring immense concentration and offering little financial reward but providing him with a meditative escape and a renewed connection to the essence of art.
This resonated deeply. In the commercial theatre world, particularly in receiving houses, shows increasingly feel like commodities. They’re investments, often driven by profit margins or tax perks, rather than vehicles for storytelling or innovation. Investors may reap invitations to glittering parties, but the productions themselves sometimes feel secondary to the spectacle of it all.
Whitfield’s pivot to paper conservation reminded me of the importance of finding purpose in quieter, more grounded ways. As someone working in theatre, I often grapple with balancing artistic integrity with the pressures of the commercial landscape. His journey is a reminder that there are ways to remain adjacent to one’s passion while rediscovering its soul.
The book also took me back to my time in London when I was studying at Central School of Speech and Drama. Moving from a working-class background in West Yorkshire to the capital was a culture shock. I briefly dipped my toes into the art world during this period, working with Turner Prize-nominated artist Fiona Banner. Her installations—polished, decommissioned fighter jets and warplanes—were awe-inspiring, and I even did some session singing alongside Viv Albertine from The Slits for one of her projects. These experiences opened the door to a world of art openings and soirées populated by characters who could have leapt straight from the pages of All That Glitters.
One particular memory stands out: a night in a boujee Canary Wharf pub with a friend I’d met through these parties. He was studying Maritime Law and, spotting a massive seascape oil painting on the pub’s wall, decided he had to have it. After much persuasion and presumably an exorbitant amount of money, he made plans the following morning to collect the 2m-wide canvas off the wall. To him, everything was for sale, and his confidence was otherworldly to someone like me, who hadn’t grown up in such privilege.
Our friendship didn’t last—I moved back north, and the last I heard, he was selling decommissioned engineering machinery to Central African countries. He still owes me £20. I wonder what became of him, this larger-than-life figure whose exploits remind me of the book’s characters, Orlando and his enigmatic friend Inigo.
Whitfield’s story is sure to receive the Netflix or Amazon Prime treatment—it’s cinematic in scope, rich in detail, and deeply human. But more than that, it’s a reflection on how art (and by extension, creativity) can both elevate and entangle us. It’s a world of glittering highs and sobering lows, of privilege and passion, where the question always looms: what do we value, and why?
If you’re curious about the art world or searching for a story that’s as thought-provoking as it is thrilling, I highly recommend All That Glitters. It might just change how you see art—and perhaps even yourself.
What struck me most, though, was how Whitfield portrays the art world as a double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s a playground for creativity and human connection. On the other, it’s a high-stakes game where art is commodified, often stripped of its intrinsic value. Orlando himself grows disillusioned with the business side of art and embarks on an apprenticeship in paper conservation—a job requiring immense concentration and offering little financial reward but providing him with a meditative escape and a renewed connection to the essence of art.
This resonated deeply. In the commercial theatre world, particularly in receiving houses, shows increasingly feel like commodities. They’re investments, often driven by profit margins or tax perks, rather than vehicles for storytelling or innovation. Investors may reap invitations to glittering parties, but the productions themselves sometimes feel secondary to the spectacle of it all.
Whitfield’s pivot to paper conservation reminded me of the importance of finding purpose in quieter, more grounded ways. As someone working in theatre, I often grapple with balancing artistic integrity with the pressures of the commercial landscape. His journey is a reminder that there are ways to remain adjacent to one’s passion while rediscovering its soul.
The book also took me back to my time in London when I was studying at Central School of Speech and Drama. Moving from a working-class background in West Yorkshire to the capital was a culture shock. I briefly dipped my toes into the art world during this period, working with Turner Prize-nominated artist Fiona Banner. Her installations—polished, decommissioned fighter jets and warplanes—were awe-inspiring, and I even did some session singing alongside Viv Albertine from The Slits for one of her projects. These experiences opened the door to a world of art openings and soirées populated by characters who could have leapt straight from the pages of All That Glitters.
One particular memory stands out: a night in a boujee Canary Wharf pub with a friend I’d met through these parties. He was studying Maritime Law and, spotting a massive seascape oil painting on the pub’s wall, decided he had to have it. After much persuasion and presumably an exorbitant amount of money, he made plans the following morning to collect the 2m-wide canvas off the wall. To him, everything was for sale, and his confidence was otherworldly to someone like me, who hadn’t grown up in such privilege.
Our friendship didn’t last—I moved back north, and the last I heard, he was selling decommissioned engineering machinery to Central African countries. He still owes me £20. I wonder what became of him, this larger-than-life figure whose exploits remind me of the book’s characters, Orlando and his enigmatic friend Inigo.
Whitfield’s story is sure to receive the Netflix or Amazon Prime treatment—it’s cinematic in scope, rich in detail, and deeply human. But more than that, it’s a reflection on how art (and by extension, creativity) can both elevate and entangle us. It’s a world of glittering highs and sobering lows, of privilege and passion, where the question always looms: what do we value, and why?
If you’re curious about the art world or searching for a story that’s as thought-provoking as it is thrilling, I highly recommend All That Glitters. It might just change how you see art—and perhaps even yourself.
