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Monday, November 21, 2016

The Green Room by Wendell Rodricks: First Page Mondays




I love all things fashion and style and beauty, and it is no secret that I love biographies and memoirs a lot as well. So when I first heard about The Green Room by Wendell Rodricks, I was sure I was going to read it. It's just that I never got down to picking it up somehow. On a chance trip to a bookstore in Goa (of all places!!!), I spotted the book, and grabbed it up immediately.

I have just about started reading it now, been a month that I got it home. And must say I am enjoying every bit. So without further ado, here's a look at the first page.

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 PROLOGUE
FEBRUARY 2005

What assails the olfactory sense is immediately obvious even to the uninitiated. The overpowering makeup and hairspray top notes clash with the musty odour of black fabric which creates walled spaces. Repeatedly stretched out through a thousand shows, the black screens are moats - to protect the princessess of the ramp from the outside world. There are also hints of nail colour and perfume, sharp notes of white wine, forbidden nicotine traces, and always a lingering notion that there is dust and dirt clawing at the edges. Inhabitants of the green room learn quickly to never touch the wall. Nor lean against the roughly hewn wooden boards. They are so dangerous that splinters can lodge deep into skin if one foolishly dares grasp them. It is always dim backstage. Seasone models and designers develop night vision - carefully picking their way through backdrop supporters, slippery acrylic entryways, floors moistened with dew and a snake pit of electric wires slithering on the floor.

 No one belongs here except beautiful mannequins, makeup and hair armies, dressers culled from local fashion schools and the designer's team. Designers showing a collection at a particular time slot colonize the green room for 'their hour.' However close the friendship between them, the entry of others into the green room during 'their hour' is frowned upon. Should a hapless tailor, steam press man or technician cross the hallowed threshold of the sanctum sanctorum, he is greeted with flashing, angry kohled eyes and half-naked models shrieking in unison: 'Get out get out! What the hell is going on! Who the fuck is this guy? Kya kar raha hai idhar? What are you doing here? Bahar jao!' The .....

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- Debolina Raja