Finding Myself in Fashion (25 page)

Lee shunned requests for TV interviews in the few years before his untimely death. But I did have the pleasure of chatting with him one last time in October 2009, just before he sent his masterful and monumental Atlantis-inspired collection down the runway. He was outside a backstage door, grabbing a smoke, when I ran up to him and gave him a big hug.

“Jeanne, great to see you!” he said, laughing.

“I've missed you so much. How have you been?” I asked.

“I've been okay. Wait til you see this one. An underwater fantasy … all about evolution.”

“Can't wait!” I told him.

“But how have you been?” he asked, looking me right in the eye. “Are you happy?”

I told him I was.

“Good, then,” he said. “As long as you're happy. That's the most important thing.”

I hadn't a
clue how profoundly unhappy my designer friend might have been at the time.

After the incredible show—a kind of harbinger of the haunting “alien” imagery the world would see months later in James Cameron's
Avatar
—my cameraman and I stood at the door of the Paris Omnisports stadium as the chic crowd filed out. I was looking for comments about the amazing artistry that had just come down the runway. Many of fashion's most seasoned veterans had tears in their eyes as they recounted how moved they had been by McQueen's genius, and how this was the kind of show that reminded them why they had fallen in love with fashion in the first place.

SAYING GOODBYE

WE CERTAINLY WEATHERED some storms together at
FQ
magazine over the years. But none was as shocking and painful as the suicide of our executive editor, Kate MacDonald, in 2004. Kate was a dear, elegant woman with a charming demeanour, an astute eye, and a life that, in theory, seemed pretty perfect. But for reasons we'll never be completely sure of, Kate sank into a deep depression in late fall of 2003, and by the end of the year, she was no longer capable of focusing on or functioning at her job and was forced to take a temporary leave of absence from the magazine. It was devastating to see such a bright and beautiful young woman, with so much going for her, retreat to such a dark and lonely place. Kate and I were still in touch from time to time, and she was working her darndest to get back to her old self. But on April 1, 2004, I was woken up at five in the morning by my friend Bernadette Morra, the fashion editor of the
Toronto Star
at the time and a very close friend of Kate's. “Jeanne, it's Bernadette. Sorry to wake you,” she said, her voice close to breaking. “But it's Kate. She—” I didn't hear another word, just gasped, knowing the worst had happened. My heart broke for Kate's three beautiful boys; for this senseless, unspeakably tragic loss; and for Kate, this sweet and
generous soul who, for some inexplicable reason, had lost her desire to live.

I flashed back to a magical day in the fall of 2003, when Kate, always the fashion plate, donned a Burberry jacket, piled her three little guys into her station wagon, and headed out to visit me and the girls at Chanteclair. The Roseneath Fall Fair was on, and we spent a charmed afternoon hanging at the fair with Kate and her sons, going on rides, and playing with the baby farm animals that were on display. Back at Chanteclair, Kate's boys romped through the fields with my girls, while she delighted in taking photographs of us all, high on life. Some other friends dropped by the farm that afternoon, and amid all the laughter, Kate expertly posed us for a group photograph by the side of the house. It was a picture-perfect moment, and I remember watching Kate and thinking how vivacious and happy she looked.

Kate's funeral was bizarre, like a scene out of a stylish movie. We were going through the motions, but all were shocked at what had transpired. Michael King hired a big black SUV to transport the
FQ
team to the church. Toronto's fashion community was out in full force. I kept trying to imagine what Kate would have thought about this sea of elegant, well-dressed mourners, all coming together for this unfortunate affair that had nothing remotely to do with any sartorial celebration. I thought of Kate's great personal style, of her love of fabulous handbags and shoes and designer clothes, of how she adored and collected fashion magazines, of how impeccably groomed she always was, of how she luxuriated in her femininity, and of all her gentle, classy ways. I thought about her knack for diplomacy, the pains she took editing copy, the zeal she had for the stories we worked on, the effort she put into the shoots we produced, her passion for the industry and what she hoped it could inspire in people—what it inspired in her. I heard she was buried in her pink Chanel suit.

A couple of weeks after Kate's untimely death, I went up to Chanteclair on my own, wanting to reflect on the recent tragedy and savour some of the memories I had of my beloved colleague. One of Kate's best friends, Erin Coombs, called me that afternoon, and we engaged in a long conversation about our late friend. I was on my
cellphone, walking around the property, enjoying the way everything was coming back to life in my gardens, when I found myself at the side of the house, in the exact spot where Kate had posed us all on that wonderful fall day. As my conversation with Erin continued, I looked down at the ground. I could hardly believe my eyes: There at my feet was a small, perfectly formed bird's nest that must have fallen from a nearby tree. I gently picked it up, and instantly, I felt Kate's presence. The nest seemed like a kind of personal message to me, a reminder of those happy emotions we all felt that day she and her boys came to visit the farm—feelings of home, family, and fulfilment. A wave of peace washed over me. I knew that Kate had come home.

I took the little nest inside the farmhouse, carefully wrapped it in tissue, gingerly placed it in a box, and took it back to the city with me. The next day, I dropped the box off at Kate's house with a note to her boys, telling them how I had found the nest at the farm. I hoped they too had nice memories of that special time we'd spent together.

While Kate had been with
FQ
for less than a year, her death shook us to our foundations and bonded us in a poignant way. Kate's duties were assigned to Shawna Cohen, the capable young editor Kate had helped bring on board, and we attempted to adjust our emotional blinders and carry on. The ride would endure for another five years before it all came crashing down. But while it lasted, the stint I spent with the Kontent Publishing Group, the company that produced both
FQ
and
SIR
, was filled with unparalleled creative highs, inspiring synergies, and rewarding relationships. It taught me as much as—if not more than—any of the professional or personal experiences I've ever had.

The demise of Kontent and the two publications in which we all took such pride can be attributed to several factors. Unquestionably, a major part of the problem was timing. By 2008, Geoffrey Dawe had bought out his partner, Michael King, with the intention of making the business more profitable. Few of us saw the devastating economic downturn coming. Within a few months, advertising dollars became very tight across the board, and those crucial ad pages on which we depended began to dwindle.

Production budgets were slashed, and it became increasingly challenging to pay contributors in a timely manner. We were forced to start thinking outside the box for ways to boost the magazines' revenues. Despite our best intentions, we sensed that a major downward spiral was inevitable. Frustrations mounted. This once brilliant dream factory was suddenly a dark and unhappy place. It killed me to see all our glorious creativity being smothered, and I knew the end was near.

A year after taking control of the business, Geoffrey Dawe reluctantly decided to try to sell
FQ
and
SIR
. While they had never become big money-makers, these respected titles had been built up into rather strong Canadian brands. But unloading these luxe magazines at a time when most publishers were struggling to stay afloat was difficult. And so, much to our profound sadness and dismay,
FQ
and
SIR
folded, with our tiny, talented, and dedicated team left to reinvent themselves.

Seasons come and seasons go. There's only one thing we can count on in fashion and in life: Everything changes, whether it's in small, barely discernible ways or with grand, sweeping turnarounds. We see this in the style world all the time. What's hot and desirable this spring is old news by fall. And as much as some change is wildly welcome, we sometimes abhor the way things take a turn in direction, the way our dreams go up in a puff of smoke, and the way things—and people—that were so real, so significant, so vital to our existence suddenly disappear and are gone forever.

BELIEVING

“DON'T BE AFRAID. And never give up.” That's the one motto that continually resonates through my head. From the beginning, it was the principle I relied on to launch the career I enjoy today. It was the refrain that helped me deal with the daunting uncertainty of my first audition at the age of sixteen. It gave me the gumption at nineteen to leave home and move to New York to pursue my dreams. It propelled me to take off for Newfoundland and find work as a mime in my early twenties. And it inspired me to move back to Toronto in 1978 and attempt to make my mark in big-city media. “Don't be afraid. And never give up.” Those were my father's words, the words he said to my mother when he so gallantly rescued her from her Nazi-ravaged village. It became his personal motto, the maxim that saw my parents through the war and all its horrors, until eventually they boarded a ship in 1948 and began the brave voyage that would transport them to a new world.

“Don't be afraid. And never give up.” It's no wonder I grew up with those words ingrained in my psyche. I fed off them as a kid when I started taking swimming lessons, terrified to jump off the diving board; when I put on my first pair of skates and wobbled over to hang on to the boards for safety; when I courageously careened down neighbourhood
sidewalks as my dad held on to the back of my bicycle seat. Years later, I relied on the motto in my darkest hours, when Denny left and I fought to establish a new sense of myself in a life that had suddenly turned bleak and desperately lonely.

I can't count the number of times I have heard my late father's words in my head. I hear them even when I'm out in the field, running around backstage at some fashion event, trying to find the designer for a quick interview or pushing my way through the media throngs and the hordes of paparazzi, chasing after some high-profile celeb in the hope of grabbing a few precious seconds on camera. My father's advice still serves me well, instilling me with the nerve, tenacity, and blind faith required to do my job … and live my life.

I have also learned that sometimes, just when I'm about to give up, miracles do happen. Covering Stella McCartney's first Chloé show at the old Paris Opéra in October 1997 was an amazing experience. I'd first met Stella in London the year before, at her small Notting Hill studio, just after she graduated from Central Saint Martins College of Art and Design. Fashion arbiters were already buzzing about her, and we at
Fashion Television
were keen to see what all the hype was about. I wasn't disappointed. From the moment I stepped into her unassuming atelier, I felt a wholesome, good-vibe feeling, and Stella could not have been friendlier or more accommodating. She was in between appointments with buyers—the word was out, and retailers were scrambling to get her on board. Warm and down-to-earth, she took me through each of the garments on the rack, and I was charmed by the collection. The clothes featured romantic details, like vintage buttons and ribbons, and there was a femininity to her vision that soon became her trademark.

I talked to her about what she had learned from her famous parents, and I was pleased to see that the daughter of my personal teenage icon had turned out to be such a lovely young woman. Having had the joy of actually meeting and interviewing Paul McCartney several times in the 1980s, when I was an entertainment reporter, I was heartened to see that he was the “real deal”—charming, personable, and very present. My old hero hadn't let me down! Paul struck me as incredibly grounded, and someone who really loved people. The same went for Linda, whom
I'd had the chance to meet and interview years before. I asked Stella about the most valuable lesson her parents had taught her. She reflected for a moment, then said, matter-of-factly, “They taught me to be normal.”

The very next year, Stella was appointed creative head of the French label Chloé, controversially ousting the venerable Karl Lagerfeld. Anticipation was high as the press and invited guests filed in to her first show, in one of the regal gilt salons of the Opéra Garnier. As the room began to fill up, I spotted Paul and Linda McCartney in the front row, beside Ringo Starr and his wife, Barbara Bach. For an old Beatlemaniac like me, this was huge. Of course, cameras weren't allowed anywhere near the luminaries, so I just prayed I would get lucky when I tried to grab them after the show. In the meantime, I rushed over to the bank of cameras assembled at the end of the runway and asked my cameraman, Pat Pidgeon, to at least get a long shot of the illustrious couples in their front-row seats.