Chanel biography read

Read online Coco Chanel. He had everything, and even more.

The duke himself did not know how much his yachts, palaces, castles, greenhouses, hunting grounds, horses, diamonds, diamonds ... He was not a snob - he loved comfortable clothes, spat on many rules and prohibitions and wore terribly worn out shoes because you could not save their legs. We found a lot in common, even nicknames: I have Coco because of a song about a rooster, he has a vendor named his beloved mare's beloved mare.

And the duke was friends with Winston Churchill, who did not shock the “oddities” of the vendor and who called him easily: “Benny”. An insanely rich, wonderful lover and interesting person who was not afraid of my origin, is ready to make me, yesterday’s seamstress, albeit earned a whole fortune, but who had earned, and not inherited, duchess. And suddenly the refusal ...

Once the first Duke of Westminster, my grandfather of my vendor, in response to the proposal of the American billionaire to sell the famous horse, in honor of which the grandson was named, said: “All America’s money is not enough to buy this treasure.” I could answer it seems: - All the money of the world is not enough to buy Coco Chanel. Leave your business for the sake of ghostly happiness to be called a duchess?

I always had to choose between men and my work. Stasazin children's insults are the strongest and remember longer than others, because children are offended by their hearts, and adults with their minds. Reason is able to defeat resentment, the heart - no, there are scars on it that you can’t straighten, like folds on fabric. Probably necessary in order?

I'll try ... From childhood, I well remember my father and a bad mother. I don’t remember or do not want to remember? Rather, the second. She often coughed and suffocated. Later it seemed to me that it was a consumption, for sure it was a consumption. Mother is poverty, suffering and expectation. And also fun. Father was associated with this life and hope. Gradually, it began to seem to me that it was my mother who was to blame, that he did not live with us, like other fathers.

He must have been tired of the disease and the nagging of his wife. Once I asked why dad doesn’t take us and we’re doing this beautiful? Maybe he has another family there? Mother got angry and began to leave too. She went after her husband and gave birth to children. And then she died. Five children should be somewhere, because the father never found blessed lands. However, relatives abandoned us, they did not have the opportunity to shelter orphans.

I hate this word! An orphan is when nobody needs you, and anyone can poke your finger at you and declare this in public. Would you like to remember such a childhood? It seemed that my sisters and I are quite adults to look for this most beautiful life with my father, because my mother was laid along the roads with him. But he counted differently and took us to a shelter in Stazin. I looked after my father and realized that it would not return, that orphans forever.

But how can you believe in unnecessaryness when you are twelfth year? There was already a scar on the heart, but it still preferred to hope. He also promised his mother, and she also waited. I, too, was waiting for everything: common sense, insults, passing years. Still waiting, suddenly he will return? Ceys ... Obazin ... Obazin ... this Obazin was given to them! They drive, dig, sniff out ...

As if in my life there was nothing more significant and interesting than the monastery shelter. What difference does it make at what age I was determined there and in which I was released? You and the sisters are the most poor orphans. Our father just left! So he will return and take us there! I heard conversations that people live very richly in America, and then I thought that it was somewhere near Paris simply because Paris was completely luxurious for everyone.

Father really sent a white dress with frills, lace, a belt on which a handbag hung, and, finally, a wreath of artificial roses. It seemed to me that nothing more beautiful could not be, because my father chose a dress! Later I realized that it was surprisingly tasteless precisely because of the abundance of decoration, alapate and cheap. But then the frills looked like the height of perfection, because it was a gift from his father, his father did not forget, so he will return!

I could not write words of gratitude, because my father did not have a permanent address, but how many times I mentally composed letters! She told him about everything, that she was the most beautiful during the first participle, because the rest of the girls put on caps, and I had a wreath on my head. This is very important, forced to wear the same with everyone, but a much more battered uniform dress, I dreamed of at least something to differ.

That I often have my head with yellow soap, remembering how he does not like the smell of dirty hair, that I generally wash it at every opportunity. But most importantly, I told how to wait for him and be sure to wait. Like a spell: - Just get back, just do not deceive. I complained, but not on insults from the girls from wealthy families who teased us with poor orphans, but that I do not always manage to do well work entrusted by the sisters of the monastery, there is not enough perseverance and patience.It seemed that I should only become the most diligent, the most skillful, the most renunciation, and my father would definitely come.

Of course, from afar he will feel that the nuns have something to praise his girl, to say that she has golden hands, that she is smart. He will be pleased to hear this. Only about humility and readiness to obey the rules of thoughts was not. But I felt that my father would not demand this from me, he himself did not obey. I have a beautiful father, very beautiful, everything that is good in my appearance is from him.

Yes, of course, my even white teeth are exactly the same, he always smiled at a white -toothed smile. And thick hair is also in it, and the color of the eyes with sparks. And pride, he never cried and did not allow us. Proud people do not cry. I was proud, became renunciation and skillful, there was something for me to praise except for unwillingness to obey the general rules.

I became ... But my father did not return. Neither then nor later. But I still waited for him and loved him. There was a staircase in Wesin. Stone, without a railing, that is, on the one hand, she adjoined the wall, and the other seemed to hang over the abyss. Moreover, it turned out that you can go down safely along the wall, and you had to rise carefully. Usually we walked: faster down and slowly up.

For some reason, it seemed unfair to me, and when no one saw, I took off the stairs up the step. Once, a nursery accidentally saw a nasty Louise from those for which they paid because they were “from good families”. I realized that she would definitely bring the abbess, and therefore promised: - You will say to whom at least the word, I ... I will plow my eyebrows!

The threat is stupid, because the eyebrows plopped many, of course, not the pupils of the shelter. But I knew for sure that it hurt, because I tried to narrow my overly thick black eyebrows. For some reason, Louise was frightened of the threat, and also tried to pluck it? Let him complain! I did not report, frightened for my whitish stripes above my eyes. Then, at my Villa La Pausa, I made the same staircase, deliberately sending the architect to Obazin to copy.

I called it the "ladder of the nuns." And no one could understand where such a strange whim. And this was just a memory of strict childhood in the monastery. During the holidays, we were taken to the Aunt Louise in Varenn, not because we wanted to see, but simply for the company with her daughter Marta. Relatives did not love orphans too much, but I still waited for these holidays, just in the attic of the house there was a real treasure - cheap sugary novels.

They were once collected by pieces of newspapers and sewn with a thick thread. I had to read carefully, yellowed sheets were easily torn, but what a pleasure I had! In the novels, a completely different life, where the heroines, even if they turned out to be poor, like monastery rats, did not go in the same dresses and did not take spoons in their hands on the command of the duty sister at dinner, but they experienced violent passions.

Nothing could tear me away from the stories about the appearance and suffering of romantic heroines, from the empathy of the noble robbers, who certainly need to defeat enemies and save a charming girl, then to marry her. No one could convince me that the description of the cloaks, Manto or purple dresses of passionate beauties falling fainted for any reason, but necessarily in the hands of their saviors; The muscular torso of the heroes, the bodies of the heroes that were torn in fierce battles, which were torn in brutal battles, were left without a single scratch, and the wounds instantly turned into beautiful scars and such a sentimental nonsense is not real literature.

The heroines with a languid sigh lost their feelings, and opening their eyes, they certainly found a beautiful, courageous face of the Savior in front of them and immediately understood that it was love ... noble robbers or poor beauties, whom they saved, and often both, then they were not at all poor, but really noble, because of the intrigues of relatives, forced leading a robber life or wander around the shelters from childhood.

Justice always triumphed, vile relatives were punished, and the heroes and heroines returned to their castles and lived happily since then, swimming in luxury. Needless to say that such a fiction did not add love to their own relatives ... no matter how terrible, but addiction to such garbage has survived forever, but I hate the lilac color since then.