Bücher Kostenlos Grace: A Memoir, by Grace Coddington
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Grace: A Memoir, by Grace Coddington
Bücher Kostenlos Grace: A Memoir, by Grace Coddington
Nach einigen Malen, die Ressource, die vertrauenswürdig sowie legitime Ressourcen Publikationen ständig eine Auswahl werden zu bekommen. Die Themen in Bezug auf Wirtschaft, Verwaltung, Politik, Recht, sowie viele verschiedene andere Themen angeboten. Mehrere Autoren aus machen weltweit ständig das Buch aktualisiert werden. Die Studie, die Erfahrung, das Fachwissen und auch Motivationen eine Zeit für andere immer kommen. Es wird beweisen, dass Buch ist zeitlos und auch bemerkenswert.
Über den Autor und weitere Mitwirkende
Grace Coddington lives in New York City and Long Island with her partner, Didier Malige, and their two cats, Bart and Pumpkin.
Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
i On Growing Up In which the winds howl, the waves crash, the rain pours down, and our lonely heroine dreams of being Audrey Hepburn. There were sand dunes in the distance and rugged monochrome cliffs strung out along the coast. And druid circles. And hardly any trees. And bleakness. Although it was bleak, I saw beauty in its bleakness. There was a nice beach, and I had a little sailboat called Argo that I used to drift about in for hours in grand seclusion when it was not tethered to a small rock in a horseshoe-shaped cove called Trearddur Bay. I was fifteen then, my head filled with romantic fantasies, some fueled by the mystic spirit of Anglesey, the thinly populated island off the fogbound northern coast of Wales where I was born and raised; some by the dilapidated cinema I visited each Saturday afternoon in the underwhelming coastal town of Holyhead, a threepenny bus ride away, where the boats took off across the Irish Sea for Dublin and the Irish passengers seemed never short of a drink. Or two. Or three or four. For my first eighteen years, the Trearddur Bay Hotel, run by my family, was my only home, a plain building with whitewashed walls and a sturdy gray slate roof, long and low, with the unassuming air of an elongated bungalow. This thirty-two-room getaway spot of quiet charm was appreciated mostly by holidaymakers who liked to sail, go fishing, or take long, bracing cliff-top walks rather than roast themselves on a sunny beach. It was not overendowed with entertainment facilities, either. No television. No room service. And in most cases, not even the luxury of an en suite bathroom with toilet, although generously sized white china chamber pots were provided beneath each guest bed, and some rooms—the deluxe versions—contained a washbasin. A lineup of three to four standard bathrooms on the first floor provided everyone else’s washing facilities. For the entire hotel there was a single chambermaid, Mrs. Griffiths, a sweet little old lady in a black dress and white apron equipped with a duster and a carpet sweeper. I remember my mother being quite taken aback by a guest who took a bath and rang the bell for the maid to set about cleaning the tub. Why wouldn’t the visitors scrub it out themselves after use? she wondered. Our little hotel had three lounges, each decorated throughout in an incongruous mix of the homely and the grand, the most imposing items originating from my father’s ancestral home in the Midlands. At an early age, I discovered that the Coddingtons of Bennetston Hall, the family seat in Derbyshire, had an impressive history that included at least two wealthy Members of Parliament, my grandfather and great-grandfather, and stretched back sufficiently into the past to come complete with an ancient family crest—a dragon with flames shooting out of its mouth—and a family motto, “Nils Desperandum” (Never Despair). And so, although some communal rooms remained modest and simple, the dining room was furnished with huge, inherited antique wooden sideboards decorated with carved pheasants, ducks, and grapes, and the Blue Room contained a satinwood writing desk hand-painted with cherubs. A large library holding hundreds of beautiful leather-bound books housed many display drawers of seashells, and various species of butterfly and beetle. There was a grand piano in the music room (from my mother’s side of the family), and paintings in gilded frames—dark family portraits—hanging everywhere else. Guests would rise with the sun and retire to bed at nightfall. If they needed to use the telephone, there was a public booth in the bar. There was a single lunchtime sitting at one o’clock and another at seven p.m. for dinner, with only two waiters to serve on each occasion. Tea was upon request. Breakfast was served between nine and nine-thirty in the dining room—and certainly never in the bedroom. There was also a games room with a Ping-Pong table where I practiced and practiced. I was good. Very good. I would beat all the guests, which didn’t go down too well with my parents. The sand on the long, damp beige ribbon of beach in front of the hotel was reasonably fine-grained but did get a bit pebbly as you approached the icy Irish Sea slapping against the shore. You could, however, paddle out for a fair distance before it became freezingly knee-deep. Throughout my childhood I longed for the lushness of trees. Barely one broke the rocky surface on our side of the island. Only when we paid the occasional family visit to my father’s aunt Alice in her big, shaded house on the south side would we ever see them in numbers. My great-aunt was extremely frail and old, so I always think of her as being about a hundred. Her house was close to the small town of Beaumaris, which had a huge social life in the 1930s. My parents met there, as my mother lived nearby with her family in a sprawling house called Trecastle. Flanking our hotel on one side was a gray seascape of cliffs, rocks, and bulrushes, then acres of windswept country and a lobster fisherman’s dwelling, and on the other Trearddur House, a prestigious prep school for boys. Once I reached the age when boys became of interest, I used to linger shyly, watching them play football or cricket beyond the gray flinty stone wall bordering their playing fields until I arrived at the bus stop and took off on my winding journey to school. We were open from May to October but the hotel was guaranteed to be one hundred percent full only during the relatively sunny month of August, the time of the school summer holidays. Many vacationing families from the not too distant towns of Liverpool and Manchester made the effort to come and stay with us because, although it might have been easier for them to reach the more accessibly popular holiday spots of North Wales, our charming beach and village were that much more individual. At other times we were mostly empty or visited by parents who had come to join their sons for special events at the school. Each year tumultuous clouds and fierce equinox gales announced the end of summer. A mad scramble then ensued to rescue all the little wooden sailing boats about in the bay belonging to the locals that bobbed. Llewellyn, the lobster fisherman, was in charge of having them hauled out of the sea and beached beneath the protective seawall. All winter long, while we were closed, thick mists enveloped us and rough seas pounded our shoreline. The entire place became desolate. On foggy nights you could hear the sad moan of a foghorn coming from the nearby lighthouse. It hardly ever snowed, but it rained most of the time: a constant drizzle that made the atmosphere incredibly damp, the kind of dampness that gets into your bones. So damp that, as a child, I swear I used to ache all over from rheumatism. In the afternoons, I took long walks along the cliffs with Chuffy, my mother’s Yorkshire terrier, and Mackie, my sister’s Scottie. Stormy waves foamed and crashed over the gray rocks along the seafront, and if you missed your timing, you were liable to come in for a complete drenching whenever you dashed between them. Throughout the endless weeks of winter, the hotel was so deserted it wasn’t worth the bother of switching on the lights. My sister and I would play ghosts. Wrapped in white sheets, we hid along the dark, empty corridors, each containing many mysterious, shadowy doorways from which you could jump out and say, “Boo!” We would wait and wait, the silence broken only by the tick-tock, tick-tock, of our big grandfather clock. But in the end, I couldn’t stand the gloom, the suspense of waiting, the sinister ticking. It was too scary, so I usually fled to the warmth and comfort of the fireside. I was born on the twentieth of...
Produktinformation
Gebundene Ausgabe: 416 Seiten
Verlag: Random House (20. November 2012)
Sprache: Englisch
ISBN-10: 0812993357
ISBN-13: 978-0812993356
Größe und/oder Gewicht:
18,5 x 5,1 x 24,1 cm
Durchschnittliche Kundenbewertung:
3.3 von 5 Sternen
6 Kundenrezensionen
Amazon Bestseller-Rang:
Nr. 87.063 in Fremdsprachige Bücher (Siehe Top 100 in Fremdsprachige Bücher)
I have always found Grace Coddington to be a very interesting public person- until I read her book which was kind of disillusioning. While she has had an awesome life and experienced lots of fantastic things, her kind-of-naive-it-kind-of-happened-to-me-no-idea-why attitude didn't sit so well with me. I was expecting a bit more confidence and actual truths than just which photographer and models and designers she shot what with on which island. Shallow might be the word I am looking for.
Habe das Buch in einem Tag verschlungen. Über verschiedene Blogs bin ich auf dieses Buch gestoßen und alle anderen Bloggerinnen waren auch schon sehr begeistert. Bin zwar keine Fashion Queen, aber es hat mich einfach trotzdem gefesselt und nicht mehr aus seinem Bann gelassen. Grace erzählt uns ihr Leben von Anfang an und gewährt auch Blicke hinter die Kulissen der Vogue. Auch eine Empfehlung für nicht so modebewusste Menschen. Die Person Grace Coddington ist einfach faszinierend. Jetzt fehlt mir nur noch der Film dazu. Deshalb habe ich mir "The September Issue" auch schon bestellt. Schade, dass ich es schon ausgelesen habe. Es könnte von mir aus die doppelte Seitenanzahl haben.
GRACE: A MEMOIRI am finished reading the autobiography by the famous and creatively gifted Grace Coddington. So far it has been an inconsistently interesting read:In the first half of the book Grace recalls her many love stories and although she does not directly speak of the influence they’ve had on her fashion career, it is clear that she oly dated wealthy men and those who could help her jumpstart her career in fashion. While this is nothing new in this materialistic world of ours, I did feel slightly annoyed. I suppose it is not the fashion-based content I was expecting.However, in the second half of the book when Grace has matured in age and personality, she embarks on very interestinc creative projects and lets the reader see the inner circle of a usually closely-knit and tightly shut circle of fashion insiders. Here one can learn a lot about the important people of the fashion industry and their participation over the last decades.Finally the book closes with a chapter on cats. Although I really do love cats, this again I find very irritating and out of place. Do I really need to know about a cat mind-reader, a sort of spiritual cat therapist who Grace calls when one of her felines is late coming back froma walk in the nearby woods? I am not sure....Overall I can recommend this book as a good read on the way to work...in the train and on the underground. You can read a few fragmented pages and then put it aside and not worry about how the chapters fit together - because they dont. I read it with my toddler jumping around and if it wasn't for the cat pictures (and one photo with a dog) which we had to look at every time I picked up the book, I don't think I could have read it. So I could read a page or two and then put the book down and engage in playing peek-a-boo or changing diapers.
The book is great. Sadly despite 3 attempts, Amazon is unable to deliver a copy which is undamaged. I have given up and will buy it somewhere else.
sie erzählt ausführlich von ihrer Zeit bei der British Vogue und wie es dann nach America ging.Es tauchen nur bekannte Personen auf.
Unser Geschenk traf bei dem Empfänger voll in das Schwarze, weil die Generationen stimmen. Über den Inhalt des Buches, kann ich ich nichts sagen
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