By Joan Juliet Buck
From Joan Juliet greenback, former editor-in-chief of Vogue Paris comes her astounding, compulsively readable memoir: a wonderful account of 4 many years spent within the artistic middle of London, ny, la, and Paris, chronicling her quest to find the adaptation among glitter and gold, phantasm and fact, and what appears like happiness from the item itself.
Born right into a global of make-believe because the daughter of a larger-than-life movie manufacturer, Joan Juliet Buck's adolescence used to be a whirlwind of recognized faces, ever-changing domestic addresses, and a fascination with the glossy surfaces of items. while Joan turned the 1st and in simple terms American ever to fill Vogue Paris's coveted place of Editor in leader, a "figurehead within the cult of style and beauty," she had the potential to recreate for her getting older father, now a widower, the existence he'd loved in the course of his high-flying years, a ultimate phantasm of glamorous extra which may now not be sustained indefinitely.
Joan's...
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Extra info for The Price of Illusion
Sample text
My father’s real project was to film his friend John Brophy’s book The Day They Robbed the Bank of England. While trying to cast the Irish anarchist who tunnels under the bank to steal its gold, my parents had been enthralled by Peter O’Toole in The Long and the Short and the Tall at the Royal Court, and had gone backstage to meet him. It turned out that Peter and his girlfriend, Siân Phillips, lived around the corner from us in the National Coal Board mews, so they came back to Groom Place, stayed up all night drinking, and by morning they’d formed their own movie company, Keep Films, named after the impregnable towers of medieval castles.
Morey was dapper in his silver ties, pearl tiepin, ostrich gloves, and, until he realized that they dated him, white spats buttoned over his shoes. When he wasn’t at the casino or the racetrack, he did deals; some worked out, some didn’t. He moved stuff around. When the stuff was frozen, like postwar German marks, he moved himself around. Esta wore dresses as stiff as boxes, diamond pins along the upper slope of her bosom. She bandaged the tops of her feet every day to hide a condition that split and mottled the skin.
She hid her jewels at night, mostly from Morey’s gambling emergencies, and mainly in shoe bags. Esta rolled her eyes when my father spoke, and when he drove us along the Grande Corniche in the convertible, she whimpered from the backseat and shrieked at each glimpse of the precipice below. Morey sent Jules on trips around the Continent to chase schemes that never fully worked out, though they produced enough money to pay the rents on the big houses, to pay the staff, to buy the cars. So did the gambling at Longchamp, the Paris racetrack, and at the Cannes casinos.