Janice Dickinson's autobiography is a candid look at the bitchy, high-octane world of high fashion. Starting with her blue-collar upbringing in Florida, growing up with an sexually abusive father & a damaged mother, Janice's life story is certainly worthy book-material. From her unhappy childhood to her tedious beginnings in the modelling world in Manhattan, her life was an uphill struggle. Soon catching the wave of change, breaking the mould with her dark-looks and boyish figure, Janice was never going to be your typical All-American girl next door. And her story is definately more exciting than anything the girl next door could tell you anyway.
Dickinson's story moves at lightening speed, from boyfriend to boyfriend, designer to designer. Sometimes it's hard to keep track, which I suppose is perfectly apt - as this writing style mimics the very speed and pace that her career and life travelled at at that time. From the glamourous foreign locations to the heady excess of Studio 54, Janice paints a fantasty world of almost ludicrous proportions. Except that it's not a fantasy world at all - it all happened, and Janice recalls each event with glorious detail and candour. Her honesty and confidence is very refreshing, making such a nice change from the usual sychophantic memiors that fill the shelves.
My only complaint is with the last section of the book, covering the 1990s. Janice is very vague and seems to completetly rush throught these years, with major marriages and realtionships over and done with in a matter of pages. But hey, who really cares about those years anyway? We all what to read about Janice in her prime, in the 70s and 80s, when cocaine and platform shoes were practically a legal requirement.
Some may find Dickinson too much to take (she is a tad irritating at times), but I can forgive her for it, because she makes up for it with her brutal honesty and humour.
A must read