Finding Myself in Fashion

by Jeanne Beker

  But a certain modesty comes with age. While I have always applauded the playful audacity of those in the fashion world—from the late Alexander McQueen, who dropped his jeans to reveal American flag–decorated boxer shorts when he took his runway bow in spring 2000, to the inimitable Betsey Johnson and her risqué cartwheels— I sensed that my own days of succumbing to unbridled outrageous behaviour were over. Then, in October 2005, the FQ team and I went on a photo shoot to the five-hundred-year-old seaside town of Cartagena, Colombia. To add to the excitement, we were accompanied by a documentary crew from Cover Stories, a reality TV series about the making of our magazine, which I was co-executive producing. Though we’d been warned about the potential perils in that part of the world, from kidnappings to drug cartels, we also knew that Colombia was full of gorgeous geographical and architectural settings, to say nothing of the country’s incredibly beautiful people. It was all too much to resist.

  Our first day was spent shooting on the cobblestone streets and bustling squares of the old walled city. From the lively craftspeople selling their wares to the glamorous designer boutiques and restaurants, we quickly fell in love with this magical place. Crowds gathered to watch our stunning models, clad in local and international designer clothing, joyously camping it up for our photographer, Paul Wright. We even enlisted some colourful local characters to join in the fun, including a group of amiable musicians and an elegant woman carrying a basket of fruit on her head. After each setup, the intrigued onlookers burst into wild applause. By the time I got back to my hotel to change for dinner, I was jubilant: Our first exotic holiday spread for FQ was going to be utterly exquisite. And watching my creative team in action was a pure joy. In the trenches of the fashion magazine world, it doesn’t get much better than that.

  We had been invited to the swank home of a prominent and gracious Colombian woman for dinner. I was debating what to wear when my BlackBerry buzzed with a message from my sister. “Today is International Very Good Looking, Damn Smart Women’s Day,” it read, “so please send this message to someone you think fits this description. And remember this motto to live by: Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, worn out, and screaming, ‘Woo hoo! What a ride!’”

  Inspired by this spirited statement, and feeling almost svelte in comparison to the corpulent Fernando Botero statue I had just seen in Santo Domingo Square, I donned a skin-tight, cherry-red cocktail outfit by the Canadian label Zenobia. Sucking in my stomach, I made my way to the lobby to meet my colleagues, and for a precious few seconds, I actually did feel “very good looking” and “damn smart.”

  Our hostess’s home was truly spectacular: an ancient building transformed into a deluxe modern palazzo, complete with an indoor swimming pool. There were about twenty of us altogether, and as we sat on the rooftop, drinking delicious mango cocktails, I felt unspeakably privileged to be feted in such an opulent manner, in such wildly exotic climes.

  Downstairs, we took our seats at a beautifully set table next to the pool. Dinner included a rich bouillabaisse imaginatively served in coconut shells. Just as we were finishing our scrumptious desserts, a lively band of musicians marched into the house and began playing some steamy Latin tunes. Within minutes, we had all kicked off our shoes and were dancing our hearts out. We might have known that the pool would be too tempting on such a hot and humid night. Suddenly, guests began jumping in in all their finery. It was one of the most surreal scenes I had ever experienced! Twisting and turning to the Latin rhythms in that cool blue water, laughing madly with my pals, I was amazed that this South American fever was so infectious. The fact that I was wearing skin-tight jersey was fortuitous, as my sopping wet outfit fared much better than some of the chiffon numbers several other women wore. Still, I’ll never forget how beautiful everyone looked, and how little it mattered what anyone was wearing. This was so beautifully beyond fashion: It was about losing ourselves in the moment. The whole outrageous escapade somehow felt totally natural, and all I kept thinking was “Woo hoo! What a ride!”

  Maybe it’s the Pisces in me, but I seem to have an affinity for water. Take my memorable interview with the guitarist extraordinaire Andy Summers, of the hot 1980s rock band the Police. There are precious few ways to add years to one’s life, but one of the most effective has to be getting into a bathtub with a rock star.

  I first met Andy back in 1980, just after the release of the Police’s third album, Zenyattà Mondatta. The band was touring western Canada to promote the record, and as the host of The New Music, I was invited to Regina, Saskatchewan, to do a story on the group. I was hugely charmed by all of them. A few months later, the Police came to Toronto, and I was granted a one-on-one with Andy. Always the imp, and playfully adamant about pushing the boundaries of television propriety, he naughtily suggested that he hop into the bathtub for the interview—sans pants. Sitting on the tub’s edge, attempting to conduct my “serious interview,” I could hardly contain my laughter as the bath bubbles began to dissipate and Andy nervously tried to cover himself up. It all made for great TV, and to this day, it’s remembered by a generation of The New Music fans as a music television “classic.”

  Fast-forward to the summer of 2007. More than a quarter of a century later, Andy, who always had a penchant for photography and took delight in documenting those hedonistic early days in his life as a rock star, had just released I’ll Be Watching You, a beautiful book of his old photographs. Because the art of photography had always been a staple on Fashion Television, we decided it would be very cool to profile Andy and his new book. My office called to see if he would be up for a segment with me. Happily, he had fond memories of our old bathtub romp for The New Music and readily agreed to be interviewed the day after the Police played the Air Canada Centre. He also suggested that we do something as outrageous for the TV camera as we had all those years ago. “Maybe this time, I’ll get in the tub with him!” I joked to my producer, Christopher Sherman. Christopher mentioned the idea to Andy’s management. Apparently they loved it. I was offered tickets to the show and provided with a backstage pass to see the boys both before and after the concert. It was starting to feel like the old days all over again.

  It had been many years since I’d seen the guys, but Sting recognized me immediately and was as amicable and gracious as ever. Andy was happy to see me too, and we began plotting our shoot the next day.

  “So you’re thinking of getting into the tub with me this time?” he asked.

  “Well, if I can talk myself into it, sure,” I said, laughing.

  “I’ve got it all planned,” said Andy with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m going to take this rich brocade fabric that’s draped all over my dressing room and decorate the bathroom with it. And I’m going to put candles all around the tub … Rather exotic and mystical, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll bring the bubble bath,” I laughed. I said I couldn’t wait, but secretly I wondered what the heck I’d got myself into.

  The Police concert was astoundingly good. The guys sounded as amazing as ever, and I was blown away by their talent, energy, and overall stage appeal after all those years—almost better than I had remembered. I couldn’t wait to get my up-close interview with Andy the next day. With his approval, I asked the Toronto photographer Paul Alexander to document our interview so I could use the stills in SIR— the men’s magazine we’d launched in 2005—alongside the transcript. With the FT camera crew capturing it all in motion, this was promising to be a sublime multimedia experience.

  The next morning, readying myself for the bathtub encounter at the Windsor Arms Hotel, I agonized over whether I should be packing a bathing suit—and if so, one piece or two—and whether I should even be entertaining the notion of getting into a tub with Andy at all. After all, I was a fifty-five-year-old mother of two! I had told my own mother about the possibilit
y of doing this bathtub interview, and she was shocked that I would even consider such a thing.

  I rummaged through my drawers for my old black bikini with the leopard trim and quickly stuffed it into my purse just before I left the house. I’m taking it just in case, I told myself, though I honestly didn’t think I would have the nerve to wear it. On the way to the hotel, I stopped at the drugstore to buy a big bottle of Mr. Bubble. Couldn’t take any chances with dissipating bubbles this time around! I arrived at the hotel in a little black dress, still not sure exactly what I would be wearing for the interview.

  Andy was sitting in the living room of his suite, picking away at an acoustic guitar, when I arrived. We set up a laptop and popped in a DVD of the original 1980 bathtub interview. He was transfixed as he watched the folly unfold. We had a good laugh, and when the segment was over, it was time to get down to business. Andy disappeared into the bedroom and donned a T-shirt emblazoned with the American flag and a drawing of a two-fingered 1960s peace sign. This time, though, his maturity showed: He put on a pair of plaid boxer shorts, evidently shy of the kind of exposure he’d toyed with in his youth.

  I disappeared into the bathroom, and was charmed to see that Andy had arranged the exotic brocade fabric from his dressing room, as promised, and had placed an assortment of candles around the edge of the tub. This was bikini time! I quickly put it on, wondering all the while where this unfathomable chutzpah could possibly be coming from. Trust me, I was faking any confidence I may have exuded: I was totally freaked by the whole experience! Still, I wrapped myself up in the terrycloth bathrobe that was hanging on the door, put my hair up with a clip, removed all my jewellery, and took a very deep breath—as ready for my closeup as I would ever be. I emerged from the bathroom, and the crew crowded in—my cameraman, Jeff Brinkert; his assistant; and Paul, the photographer. The boys were impressed that I was actually going through with the wacky plan. I was feeling at once encouraged and crazy.

  Andy entered the room and turned on the taps. The big moment was approaching. I got my pink bottle of Mr. Bubble and started pouring. As the sudsy clouds erupted, Andy gingerly entered the tub. “You coming?” he asked. Suddenly, the diminutive sixty-four-yearold rock star looked like a little boy. With every ounce of cool I could muster, I sucked in my gut and disrobed. The guys cheered me on. It was all so thoroughly outrageous that I could only laugh. Hurriedly stepping into the tub, I prayed that my body would become instantly invisible. Right on cue, the cosmopolitans we had ordered from room service arrived. I definitely needed a drink.

  “Just don’t drop the mic,” warned Jeff. “And try to hold it way above the suds.” This wireless microphone was much hipper than the old hard-wired mic I had used for my first Andy-in-the-tub encounter. Andy rested his cosmo on the edge of the tub and produced a joint, which he proceeded to light as the camera started rolling and Paul started snapping. Our giddiness soon gave way to a surprisingly comfortable feeling. This was by far the most intimate setting I had ever conducted an interview in, and strangely, it felt like the most natural, relaxing, cozy place to be. Andy took a toke as I launched in to my first question. I was luxuriating in the heady conversation and pressing Andy about what he had learned about himself from his whole 1980s rise to fame. “To be an artist of any kind, you have to operate in a raw, bleeding way,” he told me between sips of his cocktail. “You have to be vulnerable and creative in any sphere. You have to go to a place that’s open … It’s a balancing act to walk that tightrope of keeping on an even keel, yet remaining emotionally vulnerable so you can be creative.”

  Somewhere in his opining about the meaning of art and the meaning of life, Andy threw his head back for a second. When he brought it back up, I screamed with horror: Flames were dancing on top of his head! His hair had caught fire from the candle! I panicked, dropped the mic, and forgetting my modesty, immediately jumped up to help. “His hair’s on fire!” I yelled. Two seconds later, before Andy even knew what hit him, the fire had been put out, and my invincible subject just kept on talking, while I had flashes of Michael Jackson’s horrific misadventure on that infamous Pepsi commercial shoot. Fortunately, Jeff kept his cool the entire time and kept on rolling, which resulted in YouTube gold—a video watched by thousands.

  By the end of our interview, Andy and I and the crew knew that what had just transpired was magic—an intimate, intelligent, and animated interview with a bona fide rock star, conducted in a preposterous setting, with a totally unexpected drama cropping up in the middle. The fact that I’d had the guts to don a bikini—and actually allowed the cameras to capture me wearing it—was the icing on the cake, and certainly won me the “good sport” award with everyone present. On a more personal note, though, although I knew I was bound to cringe when I saw the resulting images, I felt as though I’d risen to the occasion, abandoned ego, and thrown myself wholeheartedly into the moment. I had walked on the wild side once again! It made me proud to know I was still very much in touch with my inner teen.

  BROKEN PROMISES

  HIGH SARTORIAL STYLE and good manners do not necessarily go hand in hand. I’m not sure at what stage of life a person can afford to be so self-involved that others simply don’t matter. But sometimes, the unimaginable happens, and those of us who want to believe in the best in people are in for a very rude awakening. Case in point: Sean Combs, the former Puff Daddy, now commonly known as Diddy. But I still call him Puffy.

  I first met Puffy in November 1998, when the entrepreneurial rapper/producer/actor turned his talents to design and launched a small men’s hip-hop clothing line called Sean John. The line, at that time, consisted of little more than a group of oversized shirts, some with a Hawaiian-style motif. My cameraman and I had an appointment to meet Puffy at his West Twenty-first Street eatery, Justin’s (named after one of his sons). Almost two hours into our wait, our main man sashayed in with his posse. I remember being a little agitated at how late he was, but he was such a striking figure that I knew our wait was worth it. He was dressed to the nines, complete with white satin tie, like some old-time movie star—as sartorially suave and debonair a subject as I had ever encountered.

  I may not have been that impressed by his clothes line back then, but I remember thinking that this guy was scary smart in terms of knowing his fans and understanding the market he was going after. This ostentatious man had swaggered in to romance the urban jungle, and he made no bones about the powerfully glamorous vibe he projected. He was unquestionably poised to make his mark in fashion.

  “Big business—that’s what I would like to think I specialize in,” he told me. “Presentation is everything, you know, from the way your phone is answered, the way your cards look, the lawyer you have behind you, your accountant. The way you present yourself to the world is the most important thing … There’s nobody who can represent you like you, and [nobody who can] take you where you got to go but you.”

  Puffy’s business observations were sage. I asked him where he’d learned all that.

  “A lot of this stuff is just in my head, you know what I’m sayin’? I’m just bursting with information. Like God truly blessed me,” he answered.

  He was blessed all right. Two years later, the clothing label he’d founded scored over $100 million in sales. And he was adamant about giving credit where credit was due. In February 2001, at his big Bryant Park Fashion Week show, he actually conducted a mini prayer session backstage for his hunky models just before they hit the runway. I suspected it may have been partly for the benefit of the cameras, but you can’t blame a guy for trying to set an example.

  “I mean, to be honest,” he said to me, “I had to put different priorities in my life, and God is definitely first, you know. It’s important for people to know that, ’cause without God, we would not be here. You would not even be talking to me. And sometimes, we’re moving so fast, we take that for granted. So we have to slow it down and give Him His praise.”

  Puffy needed God’s help more than ever that season: He
was on trial for illegal gun possession and bribery, charges that had been laid following a Manhattan nightclub shooting. If convicted, Puffy was facing up to fifteen years in the slammer. But he had retained the famed attorney Johnnie Cochran, and everybody—media and fans alike—was giving Puffy the benefit of the doubt and praying that this icon would be able to carry on. So with his trial looming, Puffy wanted to stage a brash, sexy, and in-yer-face show in New York, and he arranged for it to be broadcast live on E! in the U.S. Besides the ghetto-fabulous collection he was presenting—which was packed with over-the-top stud-wear like mink-lined ostrich trench coats, lynx-tail scarves, and coyote stoles—Sean Combs had a spiritual message to impart: Be proud. Be tough. Fight back. Make your voice heard. And above all, don’t ever give up.

  The attitude on the runway was militant, with some rapper ranting and raving about “motherfuckers” every two seconds. Then Michael Jackson’s old hit “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough” started blaring. And as models strutted in the opulent clothing, some in Che Guevera T-shirts and others with bare chests emblazoned with “Black Power” slogans, a frenetic video played, spewing images of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, disturbing documentary footage of race riots, and a healthy helping of Puffy’s ex, the babe-acious J.Lo, thrown in for good measure. (The show was dedicated to her.) The finale was a poignant quotation from Maya Angelou, the great poet and activist, about fighting back against lies and oppression.