Finding Myself in Fashion (7 page)

All the airports had been closed, along with all the tunnels and bridges and borders. People were saying that there was still limited train service, and some scrambled to make reservations. Another good friend, the retail dynamo Bonnie Brooks, who was in from Hong Kong, got hold of me at the hotel and asked how I was getting back to Toronto. She wanted to come back with me so she could see her mother. Barb's boss, Andrew Jennings, the president of Holt Renfrew, had come in that morning, on a flight that landed shortly before the disaster. As he drove into the city and realized what was going on, he decided to turn around and have his driver take him all the way back to Toronto. Barb spoke to Andrew, and he assured us he would arrange for another car to pick us up as soon as the roads were open again.

I went up to my room and checked my voicemail. I was overwhelmed by the number of calls that had come in—friends, relatives, even casual acquaintances who knew I'd be in New York for Fashion Week, all checking to see whether I was okay. It was moving to feel that loved. The
Toronto Sun
called and asked whether I could write a first-person account of what I had experienced. The Internet was down, so after I wrote my story, I called the
Sun
's newsroom and dictated the article to them word by word. I then did another live phone report for
CityPulse
news. My voice was breaking as I recounted the morning terror. I kept saying that all this had jarred me into remembering what was really important in life. And all I yearned to do was get home so I could hug my kids.

The next morning, a driver named Errol in a black sedan collected Barb, Bonnie, and me for the long drive back home. Traffic was
horrendous, and many roads were still closed. Errol warned us that he would take us only as far as the Peace Bridge—it would just take too long to get through. We could walk across the bridge, he said, and arrange for another car to take us home from the other side.

As we hit the highway, I looked back at what we were leaving behind. The huge smokestacks receded in the distance, and I thought about all the hype and glamour and dazzle that were synonymous with New York. And I wondered whether things would, or could, ever be the same.

A couple of hours after we got on the New York State Thruway, we made a pit stop for gas and decided to stock up on munchies for the ride. We were poking through the convenience store when Bonnie told me she thought she saw Tommy Hilfiger one aisle over. “You're nuts!” I said, figuring that the events of the day had made her giddy. But as I turned the corner, I heard a voice calling my name. I looked up, and there was Tommy with his wife and daughter! It felt like another one of those war stories my parents had told me, where you randomly bump into all kinds of unexpected people because things have been so shaken up. Tommy was going to Upstate New York to visit his ailing brother. I kept thinking that the episode was like a bizarre dream: “And then we had to flee New York because the whole city was going up in smoke. So we piled in a limo to drive back home and made a pit stop, and there, between the pretzels and potato chips, was Tommy Hilfiger …” Sometimes life really is stranger than fiction.

I honestly believed at that point that fashion might be over forever. I mean, who could ever be moved by a beautiful dress again? Who could seriously fret over what to wear in light of what had happened? How could I continue in this business, scrambling around the world to trend-spot and pick designers' brains? Overnight, fashion had seemed to turn into something horribly shallow and unspeakably insipid. I couldn't imagine anyone ever really caring about it again.

When we finally got to the Peace Bridge, there had been a bomb threat, so Errol drove us to an alternate border crossing at Niagara Falls, where a new driver picked us up. When I arrived home, my girls were waiting at the door. “We were so scared,” said Joey. “I wish you didn't have to travel ever, ever again.” I hugged them, held them, and told them it would all be okay.

But I had a slight problem: Just a few days later, I was slated to fly across Canada to launch my new Jeanne Beker clothing line for Eaton's. And if that wasn't enough, the collection was inspired by my hectic, jet-set lifestyle and had been designed with the travelling woman in mind. How ironic! Most of us never wanted to get on a plane again. But travelling was such a vital part of my life. How would I cover the international scene if I was balking at the thought of boarding an airplane? Was it time to reassess what I did for a living? Or would the fear eventually subside?

By the weekend, emotional exhaustion had set in. The morning papers carried headlines about a possible impending war, with page after page of doom-and-gloom stories. Suddenly, in the front section of the paper, I spotted a huge ad: “Meet Jeanne Beker … Monday … as she launches her new clothing line.” My heart sank. There I was, looking smug and cool and glamorous, a coat slung over my shoulder, confidently standing inside an airport terminal—the modern woman on the go—as assorted pieces from my collection went round the luggage carousel. The concept had seemed so clever at the time. Now, the notion of a clothing line geared to travelling seemed laughable. I should have been thrilled—a new project had come to fruition, a dream had come true. But I was overwhelmed by sadness and wept at the helplessness, and hopelessness, of fashion. Nevertheless, friends and colleagues turned out at the downtown Toronto Eaton's store on Monday morning to attend the launch and cheer me on. We weren't in a celebratory mood, but it felt good to be together again, especially after the aborted Fashion Week. It was apparent that we needed this arena as an escape—a friendly diversion in a world that was growing increasingly dark.

You could have heard a pin drop at the airport when I boarded the plane for Vancouver a couple of days later. It was less than a week after 9/11, and hardly anyone was flying. Having eagerly boarded planes my whole life, I was now frightened, but I fought to put the paranoia to rest. After about an hour in the air, acceptance set in. I came to the
conclusion that life does go on. Despite the devastation, the fear, the uncertainty, it's our duty to forge ahead. This is what makes us human. When I addressed the crowd gathered at the Vancouver Eaton's store—a big, friendly sea of faces eager to escape for a few minutes and watch beautiful women glide down a runway—I remembered what's at the very heart of fashion: the need to dream, to imagine, to see ourselves in a perfect world, where the right clothes can actually transform us, lead us in new directions, and help us live carefree lives. Great style will never save the world, but sometimes, it can make things a little more tolerable.

By spring, the beast that is fashion had indeed marched on. Fashion is just too big a business to stop for long. The collections that came down the runways for spring '02 had been conceived prior to “the day the world changed,” and fashion that season tenaciously held to themes of innocence and romance. The heavy doses of femininity and escapism, and the new Boho Chic trend, offered a welcome bit of relief and a much-needed sense of optimism in a dark world.

By fall '02, one short year after fashion had been the last thing on anybody's mind, designers were more determined than ever to embrace all that was positive in the business. “This is about fashion,” Calvin Klein told me. “And fashion is always supposed to make a woman or a man feel good, regardless of the economy, politics, whatever is going on in the world. Fashion should never make you feel depressed. Otherwise, what's the point?” We were backstage at the Milk Studios, just after he had presented his sensual spring '03 collection. “It's time to feel happy again,” agreed Anna Sui as she sent out an ultra-upbeat, sport-themed collection, which included a sparkling football jersey reminiscent of the one Geoffrey Beene gave us back in 1968—a piece that heralded a “loosening up” of glamour. Anna Sui's vision was all about slowing down and smelling the flowers. It was just the kind of feel-good statement we had been longing for.

The celebrity quotient at the shows that season was stronger than ever too, with a bevy of stars coming out to support their friends. Oprah Winfrey and Holly Hunter were at Vera Wang; Hilary Swank and Sandra Bullock sat in the front row at Marc Jacobs; Julianne Moore
and Ellen Barkin turned up at Rick Owens; Gwyneth Paltrow was at Calvin Klein; Britney Spears caused a stir at Pat Field; Sarah Jessica Parker came out for Narciso Rodriguez; Bette Midler added to the fun at Cynthia Rowley; Elizabeth Hurley cheered on Ralph Lauren. These celebs were all chatting up the importance of style, and telling us it was time to go shopping again.

The events of 9/11 had robbed us of our innocence and changed the world in some basic way. But by that next September, optimism had unquestionably returned to New York. I remember taking in a street fair on Sixth Avenue one Saturday morning during that Fashion Week. I had an hour between shows, and I wanted to soak up some sunshine. Vendors were out selling balloons and toys and kebabs and crepes and lemonade and CDs and jewellery and T-shirts and spices and handbags—and just about everything else imaginable. The road was teeming with families and couples and bargain hunters and cops and kids and dogs. Everyone was smiling and helpful and kind and friendly. It was pure joy seeing that remarkable city so wholeheartedly back in motion. I was awed by the human resiliency and took pride in our limitless potential.

On my way back to the tents, a woman came up to me and asked if I was a designer. “No, I'm just reporting on the shows,” I told her. “Well, you should come see me,” she said. “I'm a psychic, and I see lots of good things coming your way. Big changes. Many good things.” She scribbled down her name and address. And as I watched her disappear down the street, I somehow believed in her forecast, awed by the new-found optimism in the New York air.

ON THE EDGE

THE FIRST INTERNATIONAL DESIGNER I interviewed, even before the launch of
Fashion Television
, was the Italian-born genius Pierre Cardin. It was
circa
1984, and Cardin had just acquired the legendary French restaurant Maxim's. In an effort to promote the country's culture, Air France had generously offered our entertainment news department a free trip to Paris to interview the celebrated designer, who revolutionized the fashion industry in 1960 when he famously, and controversially, introduced the idea of licensing his name. Cardin also treated our crew to a couture show at his Espace Cardin. I was awed by this charming but egotistical creator, who dreamed of one day opening a restaurant on the moon.

As recently as 2010, I had the pleasure of interviewing Cardin at length in his Paris office across from the Élysée Palace. At eighty-eight, he was as spry, astute, and productive as ever. Days earlier, he had sent a new spring collection down a Paris runway. And he delighted in showing me the sketches for a futuristic building he had designed, which was being erected outside of Venice. I was stunned by Cardin's ability to recall names, dates, and experiences. Could it be that the secret to his sharp mind and ageless spirit was his active sex life? I commented on
the fact that he was so impressively sound of mind and body. And then I asked him what shape his heart was in, romantically speaking. “Oh, I'm never alone in my bed!” he said, laughing mischievously. Evidently, his passion for work had kept Cardin young. But I was happy to hear him insinuate that a good helping of sex wasn't hurting. It was no surprise to me that the billionaire couturier enjoyed an association with history's most notorious playboy, the Marquis de Sade.

Now, it isn't every day that a girl gets invited to the château of the Marquis de Sade. But when Cardin bought the historic castle of the infamous libertine, he was eager to show it off, and to establish the village of Lacoste as a cultural destination. So in July 2001, when Paris couture week wrapped, the visionary entrepreneur and philanthropist, who was then seventy-eight, invited me and 880 other guests to an unparalleled Provence experience: Cardin's arts foundation was hosting a
grande soirée
at the marquis' abandoned château, complete with a full-scale production of a new musical Cardin had commissioned, based on the legend of Tristan and Yseult, which also happened to be the name of Cardin's new fragrance. Evidently, Cardin's marketing savvy was still going strong.

The coveted invitation requested that we dress “
léger, en noir et blanche
”—lightly, in black and white. As a tribute to the infamous marquis, I was tempted to get outrageously decked out in skimpy black leather. But at the last minute, I opted for prudence, donning a lacy cocktail number and a pair of strappy Sergio Rossi stilettos, which definitely had the right S&M attitude—I knew they would be torturing me by the end of the night! And so, feeling a little like a true fashion victim, I drove past the fields of sunflowers and lavender to Lacoste, about forty kilometres east of Avignon.

I knew little of the history of de Sade's château—only that it was to him what Walden was to Thoreau: a place of inspiration. I imagined a lush and decadent fortress. But when we finally reached the summit where the château stood, I was disappointed to find little more than ruins—a few half-demolished rooms, parts of walls and ramparts. The forty-two-room château had been destroyed in 1792. Midway through the past century, the remains of the château and its surrounding terrain
were purchased by a local schoolteacher and his wife, who built a large theatre in the stone quarry on the property. It was here that the rock opera Cardin had commissioned was going to be staged.

Cardin was wandering the moonlit grounds of the château as his guests arrived. They were all dressed in black and white, with outfits that ran the gamut from jeans to evening gowns, while the designer himself looked a bit like an absent-minded professor, defying his own dress code in casual khaki and beige, glasses perched on the end of his nose, his thinning grey hair badly in need of a cut. The Champagne flowed as the spectacle began, with a Chinese acrobatic troupe dressed in space-age outfits acting as a kind of chorus. The play was bizarre and banal, and after being subjected to it for nearly two hours, guests began leaving their seats to go off in search of more Champagne.