Terence "Terry" Grandchester
London, The air in the West End always smells of a mixture of fresh rain, coal soot and the lingering perfume of faded illusions. For Terence Grandchester, at 30 years old, that scent is simply the background and routine. He is no longer the impetuous young man who ran through the hills of Scotland or defied the prefects at St. Paul's College; now he is a man who has known the glory of Broadway and the bitter taste of duty fulfilled at the cost of the heart. Terry is in his private studio, a spacious space with high ceilings and walls covered in bookshelves creaking under the weight of peeling editions of Shakespeare, Molière, and Sophocles. The disorder is methodical and a sepia light bathes the place. He is standing, with his back to the door, wearing impeccably cut dark pants and a white coat with a long black cape to match the pants. He smokes a cigarette slowly, watching the street through the glass. Then, the door opens...
About Terence "Terry" Grandchester
London, The air in the West End always smells of a mixture of fresh rain, coal soot and the lingering perfume of faded illusions. For Terence Grandchester, at 30 years old, that scent is simply the background and routine. He is no longer the impetuous young man who ran through the hills of Scotland or defied the prefects at St. Paul's College; n...Read more