by Jeanne Beker
Because we missed all our friends back home, we frequented the local Internet café. The girls were intrigued to think that they were communicating from this exotic locale to their girlfriends’ boring bedrooms. Joey ordered nothing but leche con chocolate, frio, while Bekky became addicted to a soft drink called Squirt and I became a margarita maven. We spent our afternoons having long, lazy lunches in courtyard cafés resplendent with bougainvillea, discussing art and life and just which little souvenirs to purchase. Marion was our guide, an elegant vision in white linen and a straw fedora, swaggering down the skinny sidewalks like she owned the place. She has become a highly successful artist in San Miguel these past few years, and I thought back to the days she struggled in Toronto, living in a basement and subsidizing her income by working in a bar. I started collecting her striking figurative paintings in the early 1980s, and my girls had grown up with them on the walls of our home. It meant so much for the girls to finally get to know her.
Most evenings were spent in the bustling main square, which hosted tiny parades and vendors selling balloons and toys on sticks and ice cream and cups of corn—a mecca for mariachis and artists and lovers and little kids who get to stay up late and old people simply content with watching the world go by. You could lose yourself in that square. And some nights I did, savouring each and every joyous moment.
Then there was the flamboyant Toller, my old confidant and original style icon, one of the first true artistes I had ever befriended. We had lost touch over the years, and it was bliss to rediscover him in his little Shangri-La. Toller’s San Miguel estate comprised a magnificent four-house garden compound hidden behind great wooden doors, complete with a glass-walled studio filled with enormous, vibrant, and lyrical canvases. To celebrate my big 5-0, he hosted a simple yet lively Champagne-and-pizza dinner for us in his studio. The highlight was the birthday surprise he’d arranged with my sister, Marilyn, in L.A.: In the middle of dinner, a nine-member mariachi band, all dressed in gleaming white suits, strolled into the garden and up the studio stairs. “Any requests?” they asked. I didn’t know any Spanish songs and thought for a minute. “How about ‘My Way’?” I asked. To our delight, the band launched into a Spanish rendition of that classic corny tune. And I, Champagne flute in hand, drank in every last word.
But few trips I have taken with my beautiful girls can compare to our enigmatic but memorable time in Paris. The passion I feel for the City of Light dates back to 1974, when I spent a joyous few months there as an aspiring young artiste intent on mastering mime. I often think it’s because I get to travel to Paris four times a year (covering the two prêt-à-porter and two haute couture collections) that I stay in this business. The inspiration I glean each time I stroll along the Seine, pull up at the Place Vendôme, see the Eiffel Tower, or sip a café au lait at a corner bistro is unfathomable. It’s what feeds my spirit and soothes my soul.
For years as my girls were growing up, I dreamed of taking them to Paris to witness all the fantastic things that I had been telling them about, and to share those passions that run so deep in me. I wanted them to see the art and the architecture, taste the croissants and the crêpes, see the style on the streets, hear the music of the language, and experience the sheer joy of bearing witness to all that ubiquitous beauty. But regrettably, for me, Paris and work are synonymous, and with my days spent running around from shows to ateliers to interviews, there was never enough time to deal with the girls. Besides, between school and summer camp, their schedules were too harried to coordinate.
In July 2006, when Bekky was nineteen and Joey sixteen, and summer camp was no longer a factor, I felt that my chance to show them Paris had finally arrived. I would be working the first few days of the trip, of course, covering the fall couture collections. And I would have a cameraman in tow. But I figured these young ladies were now old enough to amuse themselves. And I would try to finagle some tickets for them to at least one of the shows, so they could witness the splendour of the runway and see me in action. They seemed pumped for the trip, and I was certain that my fondest fantasies were about to be realized.
Paris in the sweltering heat is not ideal, but with the temperature in the thirty-degree range the day we arrived, we just had to sweat and bear it. In the cab on the way from the airport, I anticipated my daughters’ “oohs” and “ahhs” as the city unfolded, remembering so vividly what it was like for me the first time I saw Paris. But then I got my first rude awakening. “Feels like Montreal to me,” sniffed Bekky. “I think I like Florence better,” added Joey, getting nostalgic for the school trip she had taken the previous year. Complaints about the stifling heat dissipated as we neared the hotel. I had booked them an extra room at the Odéon Hôtel, the charming little St. Germain hideaway where I had been staying for almost a decade. Happily, they were charmed by the neighbourhood and the accommodations, though the tiny elevator to the sixth floor gave Bekky a case of claustrophobia. There was a view of the Eiffel Tower from both rooms, and the girls were delighted with that. It was decided that Joey would bunk in with me, however, so the volatile Bekky could luxuriate in the privacy of her own little room, which the writer in her saw as quite garret-like.
We crossed the Carrefour de l’Odéon for our first meal, choosing to lunch at one of my regular haunts, Les Éditeurs. It was then the real bickering began. I dismissed it as jet lag and tried to lose myself in a glass of Chardonnay. A plate of frites later, an exhausted Joey returned to her room, leaving Bekky and me on our own to savour St. Germain. I showed her all my favourite shops and cafés, and she seemed to be lapping it all up. But she did proclaim her disappointment at the way women were dressed. “I thought Parisian women were supposed to have such style,” she mused. “I can’t see it at all.” I sort of understood where she was coming from: The women on Bloor Street in Toronto dressed just as chicly. I knew it would take Bekky a while longer to realize that great style goes far beyond the superficiality of what people wear.
Just when Bekky was ready to crash, Joey got up and was ready to rock. So I took her to the opening of the new avenue Montaigne Chrome Hearts boutique. Decked out in funky plaid pants, a studded belt with a skull buckle, and an old Doors T-shirt, she fit right in. The label’s cool co-designer, Richard Stark, struck up a conversation with her. I stood back and watched as Joey—my baby—got into the Paris groove, proud as punch that she was holding her own.
The next morning, I took off for the shows while the girls went exploring with my cameraman’s lovely girlfriend. We met up at the end of day, and they told me about riding the giant Ferris wheel and the carousel at the Trocadéro, while I regaled them with stories of Cher at Armani and Mischa Barton, Drew Barrymore, and Liv Tyler at Dior. Bekky was zapped once more, so she napped while I took Joey to Valentino. I hoped it was as much a fantasy for her as it was for me, rubbing shoulders backstage with the likes of Liz Hurley and Martha Stewart. I even introduced her to Valentino himself.
As the week progressed, the city’s romantic and adventurous spirit overcame us in spurts. In between fashion shows and all the bickering, we went on mini shopping sprees. I had been shopping for Bekky and Joey for years, trying to guess what might appeal to them. Now, it was exhilarating to see them make their own choices. The adventure continued as I sneaked them into the Christian Lacroix show and taught them the art of scamming a seat. (Wait til the last minute and nonchalantly ease your way in. If the rightful owner shows up, make a quick exit.) Watching the brilliant Lacroix collection cruise down the catwalk from the front row was a dream come true. “The dresses look like Fabergé eggs, Mum,” Joey astutely noted.
In the days that followed, sporadic squabbling was de rigueur, and complaints about everything from the way the milk tasted to the flavour of the coffee were constant. I grew to appreciate the girls’ iPods, which allowed them to escape into their own little worlds and gave my aching ears a rest. Joey made her way through the Musée d’Orsay listening to Death Cab for Cutie, while Bekky was tuned to classic Kinks. At Sha
kespeare and Company, the famous St. Germain bookstore, Bekky went for James Joyce’s Ulysses, while Joey opted for Sartre’s Nausea— more welcome distractions to keep the bickering at bay.
Excitement ensued one morning when Bekky bravely took a Hemingway walking tour and met a nice young man from B.C. She made plans to meet him at the Louvre the next day. I occupied Joey by taking her to Angelina’s for hot chocolate and then to the Balenciaga exhibit at the Musée de la Mode. Unfortunately, we learned that Bekky’s “date” was a no-show (perhaps because she got to the Louvre fifteen minutes late). But my heart really broke for Bek the night we went to the cinema to see Marie Antoinette. There was a torrential downpour, and Bekky had left her hotel room windows open. When she got back, she discovered that her precious journal, in which she had been keeping copious notes, was totally drenched—a sopping, smudged disaster! I worried that the bleak episode might mar our entire trip.
By the end of the week, I was exhausted from trying to give them the time of their lives so they’d fall in love with Paris as I had done so many years ago. I finally realized something: You can’t expect your children to be inspired by the same things that moved you. Nor can you instil in someone the same kind of passion just because you feel it. There were many times on the trip when I felt I was jamming square pegs into round holes, and several occasions when I wondered why I had even bothered trying to realize this fantasy of mine. But finally, on our last night, sitting under the stars at Café Ruc, both girls made it all worthwhile when they thanked me for bringing them to Paris. Bekky even ventured to say that perhaps she’d move to Paris one day. And when I asked them to write a few paragraphs each for The Globe and Mail, so I could add their observations to the end of the story I was writing—just to give readers an idea of what their take on the week was—I was blown away by how inspired their comments were, how sensitive they really had been to things I assumed had gone unnoticed, and how grateful they were finally to have been in the eye of this ultra-fashionable storm I had grown to love. So that’s one more lesson learned, I suppose: Never underestimate your kids.
TENNESSEE STUD
GETTING IT RIGHT often takes time. Seasons come and go, fashions change, and remaining true to yourself is often painfully trying. Sometimes staying fashionable is about following your head. And sometimes, it’s about following your heart. The most successful collections—and the most successful designers—are those that manage to walk the line between practicality and fantasy, a very precarious place to be. Sometimes, a designer will strike out with a collection and get panned by the critics. But that kind of failure rarely heralds the end of a career. The following season, the same designer can come back stronger than ever. What’s important is experimenting with new directions. After all, no guts, no glory.
When my relationship with Jack ended, I yearned to find someone who saw the world the way I did—a kindred creative spirit who could read the poetry in every line of life. Someone who got the music, who could always make me laugh. I longed for such a complete about-face in my personal life because the last few years had been so inexplicably lonely for me. I was on a mission to find Mr. Right.
You might imagine that being in the public eye has some advantages when it comes to meeting people—after all, you’re constantly “out there” in a variety of social situations. But in my experience, “out there” can be a rather wretched place. First of all, as a woman who has achieved a degree of public success, you can be intimidating to men who would rather have the spotlight to themselves. Then there are those guys who are put off by all the attention that comes with being a well-known face. They prefer anonymity and resent the constant scrutiny that comes with the territory. I should have known my marriage was in trouble when I first heard Denny tell someone that being out with me was like “being with a neon sign.” I had worked for so long to build my visibility, but now it seemed like some kind of curse.
I had several girlfriends who were meeting men online—but that was something I could never feel comfortable doing. Too many people knew me, or at least thought they knew me. It would just be too embarrassing to put myself out there like that. And while you might suppose that the social aspect of my work would make it a cinch to meet all sorts of interesting guys, any woman who works in fashion will tell you that about 98 percent of the men she meets play for the other team. I never gave up hoping that the man of my dreams might be around the next corner, but I started thinking that a little divine intervention might be in order if I didn’t want to be alone for the rest of my life. All my friends were aware that I was eager to meet someone, and that I might be willing to entertain a blind date. The problem was, there was a shortage of straight, single, age-appropriate guys around. I would just have to be patient.
In September 2006, four months after my relationship with Jack ended, I was in New York covering the spring collections when my friend Deenah Mollin called.
“Jeanne, do you remember H.?” she asked.
H. was a Nashville musician and record producer who had worked with one of America’s legendary country stars for years. And he was a dear friend of Deenah’s ex, who was also a musician. I recalled meeting H. about five years earlier at a dinner in Toronto, when he had just left his long-suffering wife for some aspiring young starlet, a Jewish girl who had moved to Nashville from Upstate New York, changed her name, and desperately wanted a recording contract. I tried not to be judgmental at the time, though the thought of it all made me cringe. But H. seemed to be a really nice guy, and while he was a little older than me and a tad rough around the edges, I remembered him as hip, witty, and charming as all get-out. He kept teasing me about being a “fashionista.” And when he uttered the word in his thick southern drawl, it struck me as outrageously funny. We had got along like a house on fire. Little did I know that H. was about to literally set my house on fire! But I’m getting ahead of myself.
“Sure, I remember him,” I said. “Why, what’s up?”
“Well,” said Deenah, “he was really attracted to you when he first met you, and he always asks about you. I was talking to him the other day, and he said he was in New York. When I told him you were also in New York, he said he would love to meet you for a drink. Interested?” she asked.
“Whatever happened to the young girlfriend?” I asked. Deenah informed me he wasn’t with her anymore. My schedule was jam-packed, and I was running around to the shows at my usual hectic pace. But hey! If H. was up for a late-night rendezvous, I figured it might be fun to catch up. “Sure,” I said, excited to actually be going on a date. “Tell him to call me.”
The next day, the drawl on the phone was unmistakable, and H. had me laughing within seconds. I suggested he come by my hotel bar for drinks at around ten that night, once the last show we were covering was over. When I got back to my hotel, I slithered into my best pair of skinny jeans and the cool new Isabella Fiore boots I had just bought in L.A., which had “Faith, Hope, and Love” embroidered on them. Maybe they’d bring me luck. I went downstairs to the lobby to wait.
Minutes later, a tall, lanky guy sporting a Kangol cap, wire-frame spectacles, an oversized plaid wool shirt, faded blue jeans, and Frye boots moseyed into the lobby carrying a very unfashionable big plastic bag. It was raining, and he was a little wet. “Hi, baby!” H. said as soon as he saw me. He looked much craggier than I remembered him, but there was something so loose and relaxed about his manner that he seemed like a breath of fresh air.
We headed for the bar, and I asked him what was in the bag. He told me it contained some of his personal effects, the last few things he had left at his ex-girlfriend’s apartment. Apparently, the aspiring starlet was living in the Big Apple now as a Broadway chorus girl.
“Whoa, that was frightful,” he drawled. “I need a drink.” H. ordered a Jack Daniels and proceeded to tell me that he had just come from his ex’s place, and she had given him a really hard time. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I chose to ignore the drama and try to get to know him better.
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We sat in the bar for a good couple of hours, totally engrossed in our conversation, me regaling him with tales of my old rock-and-roll days, him making me laugh out loud with his hilarious perceptions of the fashion world and his endearingly self-deprecating ways. He talked about how proud he was of his two beautiful grown daughters. And he also shared the pain and sadness he felt because of his severely mentally and physically disabled son. His love for that special child—his eldest— was particularly profound. That explained why there was something so world-weary about this guy, a kind of inner sadness. My heart went out to him, and I sensed that this aspect of his life had made him a bigger, more compassionate person. But H. kept coming back to the lighter side of life, and with his witty observations, constant wisecracks, and huge guffaws, he had me laughing more than I had laughed in a very long time. I was amazed how refreshingly different this guy was from anyone I had known.
Round about midnight, we decided to stroll through Times Square and get an ice cream. I was a little unnerved at first when he grabbed my hand, but soon I was merrily trying to keep up with his big, long strides. This was fun, I thought. New York took on a new complexion, miles away from anything to do with fashion. H.’s cellphone kept buzzing, and he constantly checked the text messages that were pouring in, complaining it was his ex, distraught over his departure. “I told her I was meeting you for a drink. She’s probably all jealous now,” he said. “But I’m not breaking down!” he added, with fierce determination. Again, I chose to ignore the shenanigans going on between these two and just be happy that I had found a cool new friend.