by Jeanne Beker
Besides the art team, which had already been assembled, and the sales staff, which Geoffrey and Shelagh had hired, we needed a managing or executive editor to work under me and a senior editor, as well as an editorial intern. I suggested to Michael that we hire Kate MacDonald, a sophisticated and stylish woman who was a seasoned magazine pro, having written and edited fashion and beauty features for a number of publications. Kate was forty-two, married to a successful Toronto doctor, and the mother of three young boys, with a lovely Rosedale home and an incredible passion for fashion. In my mind, she epitomized the style-savvy reader we were after. Kate had been working at a commercial publishing house, but I knew she was dying to get back on board a fashion magazine. She was kind and lovely, talented and dedicated, and had been a strong supporter of mine in the past. I felt she’d be a perfect collaborator for FQ. Michael met her and instantly liked her. “She was even wearing a little pink Chanel suit,” he told me after meeting her for the first time. “She’s perfect for our brand!”
Kate introduced us to a candidate for senior editor, the feisty and quick-witted Shawna Cohen. Shawna also was a perfect addition to the team, which was filled out with two of my discoveries, interns extraordinaire Hayley Atkin, a real go-getter and the daughter of Holt Renfrew’s fashion director, Barbara Atkin, and Kayla Radke, the daughter of Toronto model Kerry Jewitt. The chemistry between us all was instantaneous. We were excited, committed, proud, and passionate. We couldn’t wait for the adventure to begin.
There was a resurgence of 1930s deco on in the fall of 2003. I suggested the trend as the theme for our inaugural issue, and the creative cogs started turning. We planned an elaborate fashion shoot at a newly refurbished downtown Toronto event venue called the Carlu, which had been designed in 1930 by the famed French architect Jacques Carlu. I conscripted an author friend, Marian Fowler, whose specialty was historical books about fashion, to write a feature on the deco era. We wanted FQ not only to entertain but also to edify—to shed some light on the eras and icons that so often inspired designers in their work. We intended to be mindful of the past, while keeping our gaze firmly focused on the future. But above all, unlike most conventional fashion magazines, we were determined not to tell our readers how to dress. We wanted to show them how to dream.
Regular departments that we introduced in the inaugural issue of FQ included “Icon,” for which we profiled Jean-Paul Gaultier; “Up Close and Personal,” which featured my recent conversation with Isaac Mizrahi about his much-ballyhooed comeback with a collection for Target; and “Signature Style,” in which we dissected the personal style of a celebrated person from the past whose choices were still relevant today. For that first issue, our subject was Frank Sinatra, who had a penchant for a colour that was just then making a comeback on the runways—orange. Every issue would also run a report, in the form of a diary entry, which I composed about the international collections, both ready-to-wear and couture. We introduced another diary feature as well, slugged as either “Diary of a Diva” or “Diary of a Dandy,” depending on who penned it. Our first “Diary of a Dandy” was written by Bruce Bailey—my art collector pal and the man who had turned me on to the wonders of Northumberland County. His piece was based on his recent sojourn to the Venice Biennale. And it was considered a coup that I managed to convince the illustrious journalist and fashionista Barbara Amiel, wife of Conrad Black, to write a regular column in a department we playfully dubbed “Babs.” Barbara would share her insider perspectives on high style, beginning with what it was like to go on a shopping spree with Vogue’s inimitable André Leon Talley. We reserved the last page of FQ for “F-Stop,” a look back at a vintage photo that encapsulated the theme of each issue. For the deco issue, we found a stellar photograph of Joan Crawford, standing in front of a set of revolving doors, in the dramatic black-and-white gown she wore in Grand Hotel. But perhaps my favourite department in FQ was “Doll House,” our nostalgic take on the paper dolls of the past—the precious playthings that were my introduction to fashion as a girl. This was a novel way of featuring hot runway trends each season. I would choose the outfits that best captured the current zeitgeist, and our illustrator would recreate them as paper-doll garments, suitable for both collecting and dreaming.
With so many rich and intriguing bits and pieces to play around with, I had never felt more stimulated and inspired. Finally, I had become more than a spectator of fashion, more even than a reporter of fashion. As editor-in-chief, my perspective on each season really mattered. It was a joy to report back to the team on my return from a collections week, letting them know the mood of the moment, describing what would be coming down the pipes in the coming months, and suggesting ways we could spin it all into the rich fabric of FQ. Dreaming up the fashion shoots with Michael and the art team was especially thrilling, because Michael and I really clicked creatively and never failed to spur each other on. “Let’s go dream the dream, darling,” he’d say to me as we began to conceptualize each issue. It was all very magical. We were making things happen, not just following what others put out there.
There were two editorial shoots in that inaugural issue. The first was the elegant art deco fantasy we staged at the Carlu. And then there was its virtual opposite, a “walk on the wild side” shoot that I convinced a friend, the German-born photographer André Rau, to undertake. For this photo fantasy, we took a model to Times Square in New York and dressed her in a series of trench coats (the trench had made a big comeback that season) with ultra-sexy lingerie underneath. The story was called “Out of the Trenches, into the Streets,” and it caused quite a stir as we were shooting it. We hired a little Winnebago and parked it on one of the streets just off Broadway. And every time our gorgeous model emerged, clad in a different dramatic trench and flashing that fancy underwear, the crowds went wild. We even managed to get the Naked Cowboy to interact with our model in one of the shots. (He’s the legendary busker who has been performing in nothing more than a cowboy hat, boots, and skivvies in Times Square for years.) The shoot was outlandish, energetic, gritty, and glamorous. My Fashion Television camera was on hand too, capturing all the urban craziness, with scores of onlookers both excited and mesmerized by what was going down. Having masterminded this outrageous fantasy, I was on a total high, choosing clothes, working with the stylist to dress the model, and helping to direct André.
Back in Toronto, our deco shoot at the Carlu, which we called “The Women,” loosely basing it on the iconic 1939 movie, turned into its own mini drama. We had booked the New York model-turnedactress Michele Hicks to be our “leading lady,” with the Somalia-born, Toronto-based model Yasmin Warsame in a strong supporting role. We were also planning to shoot Michele for our important first cover. As a model, Michele had been around for a while, and she was desperately trying to spread her wings into the acting world. That was something we liked: We wanted our subjects, and especially our cover girl, to be multi-dimensional. Michele also had a strong, sophisticated, dramatic look that we thought would work well on our cover, setting us apart from other fashion magazines, especially in the Canadian market, that were catering to a younger demographic.
I had known Michele for years and had interviewed her numerous times. Besides being a sensational model, she had intelligence and spunk. But for some reason, her attitude on set that day at the Carlu was off. She had flown in from New York and seemed a little world-weary, and she didn’t appear to be drawing any joy from the project. And while the shots she delivered were pretty fabulous—she was a great model, after all—there were no warm and fuzzy feelings between her and the rest of the crew. Yasmin, meanwhile, was also delivering some amazing shots, but with none of the drama that we were seeing with Michele. The crew was charmed by her work ethic, warmth, and down-to-earth personality. When our star subject had to leave to catch a flight, we decided to give Yasmin a shot at the cover. We decked her out in a stunning black-and-white Dior gown, dynamic red platform shoes, and a vintage red-and-black deco necklace. And as Michael a
nd I watched her pose and drank in her exquisite, exotic beauty, we instinctively knew we had our crucial first cover long before we saw any of the resulting shots. The fact that Yasmin was black, and black models conventionally and controversially rarely make it onto magazine covers, didn’t even figure in our decision. We were after artistry and beauty, plain and simple.
We launched FQ on the opening night of the 2003 Toronto International Film Festival, at a gala party in a space that was still under construction—the restaurant and lobby of a hip new boutique hotel, Le Germain. Our party became one of the hottest tickets at the festival, and we managed to attract many of the filmmakers who were in town, including the Oscar-winning Quebec director Denys Arcand. I wore an ultra-sexy little black Gucci dress to the event, and spoke to the crowd about the sensibility behind the magazine and why we were all so proud to be associated with it. People were blown away by the oversized format and the edgy photography, and everybody told me they couldn’t wait to go home to devour this new baby of ours. It seemed as if a whole new era was beginning in Canadian fashion—not just for us, but for everyone who loved high style.
As it turned out, my duties at Fashion Television didn’t change at all. I continued to juggle my hosting and producing responsibilities in my own signature fashion, always getting the assigned work done, as well as maintaining the level of creative input I had been contributing to the show since its inception. Call me a workhorse, but this is something I prided myself in—always have, and always will. I’ve always found both the time and the energy for the projects I’ve undertaken. And I have never missed a deadline. The idea of finding a younger co-host to work with me was eventually abandoned, and I simply carried on, albeit at a fraction of my old salary. Happily, the opportunity to throw myself into this magazine venture made up for any bitterness I may have felt towards the powers that be at CHUM. Ironically, my own brand just grew stronger as my profile and credibility expanded. And then, in 2006, CHUM Television, which produced and aired my series, was taken over by Canada’s major TV network, CTV. It seems that the folks who ran CTV appreciated me, believed in the strength of my personal brand, and understood what it could do for the network. My former salary was reinstated, and the new regime realized my value and got me involved in more of their programming. The old adage had come true for me once again: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I embraced my position with renewed optimism and passion, grateful to the gods for again helping me to find my way.
MATURATION DATE
I SOMETIMES CATCH MYSELF looking in hotel room mirrors, and I’m astounded by the fifty-eight-year-old face looking back at me. I can’t believe how many lines I’ve earned, how tired I look, how the once-taught skin on my neck is now a bit crepe-like, how my eyelids aren’t showing as much as I think they should, how bland I look with no makeup at all. “What do you expect?” I reason to myself. “You’ve had a big life, a ginormous life. You’ve put on a lot of mileage. You’ve lived and loved and lost and learned how to survive like a true pro.” Anyway, what choice do I have? Cosmetic surgery is always an option, I suppose, though one I’m constantly trying to talk myself out of. “You may have succumbed to pressure and had an eye-job way back, before you turned forty,” I reflect. “And yes, dear Dr. Trevor Born shoots you up with Botox a few times a year, just to ease the grooves a bit, to soften the furrows and relax those lines. But you’ve never gone all the way—never had a facelift. Hmm. Is it time?” I sometimes wonder.
Once in a while, I get carried away and playfully pull my face back a bit to see what I would look like sans the sagging. While I would certainly look more rested and refreshed, I usually end up laughing at myself. I’ll never say never, but I just can’t imagine doing something as drastic at this point as taking a knife to my face. Still, as we all know, this is a bona fide crazy-making business that I’m in—a business that has an uncanny way of persuading people to subscribe to fantasies about the possibility of eternal youth. If only we work at it hard enough, exercise enough, diet enough, wear the right clothes, and use the right beauty products, no one will ever guess our real age! But honestly, I’ve never tried to hide my age. As long as I’m feeling good and have my health, I’m proud to be the age I am—grateful for what I’ve managed to accomplish and happy about the woman I’ve become, warts and all. Usually I feel like I’m still seventeen. But I certainly don’t long to be seventeen again! Or twenty-seven or thirty-seven or forty-seven … or even fifty-seven, for that matter. I’ve got an amazing life to reflect on, and the optimist in me still believes the best is yet to come. Sure, I may need more of Dr. Born’s help as I get a little further down the road. But right now—today—I’m totally at peace with how I’ve aged thus far.
Back in the early days of Fashion Television, around 1986, Anouk Aimée, the elegant French actress who had been the muse of Emanuel Ungaro for years, came to Toronto to help promote the designer’s label at Creeds, the chic (now defunct) Bloor Street clothier. We cozied up on a couch at the store and talked about the meaning of style. I asked Anouk what she loved about fashion, and without hesitating, she told me that fashion and its ever-changing nature is the one thing that can keep you young and “plugged in.” I decided then and there that I would be forever young, since I was passionate about fashion and reporting on it was my new trade.
Whenever I start feeling a bit long in the tooth, I flash back to that cozy chat and think how lucky I am to be working in this arena. And even though I often have to dance as fast as I can just to keep up, I wholeheartedly believe that this is a business that keeps you young, socially informed, and “with it,” no matter what your age. As a matter of fact, the people who have been in fashion the longest are often the ones who garner the most respect. They’re the ones with the broadest frames of reference, the most savvy, and the most experience in general. And in a business like fashion, which owes so much to history and mentorship, those who have been around a long time are revered, celebrated, and applauded for both hanging in and keeping up.
Coincidentally (or perhaps not), it was at an Ungaro show in Paris in 2004, nearly two decades after that chat with Anouk Aimée, that the problem of ageism really struck me for the first time. There I was, as fit and feisty as ever at fifty-two, backstage at a grand salon of the Carrousel du Louvre, waiting to speak with the talented young Italian who had taken over from Emanuel Ungaro when the master retired. Giambattista Valli, a class act and true gentleman (to say nothing of his extraordinary design abilities), was conducting interviews with a small number of camera crews, and everyone was patiently waiting their turn. Suddenly, a haughty young redhead, probably no more than twenty-two, came into view, and I saw her telling the PR woman that she wanted to go next.
“Excuse me,” I piped up, “but I believe we’re next.”
The redhead was from a rival fashion program, FTV Paris—or Fashion Television Paris. This is a fashion channel that was started in 1997, twelve years after our Toronto-based Fashion Television had been established. (The similarity between their name and ours initially caused some confusion in the industry.) And here was this young FTV reporter trying to butt in, and I wasn’t having any of it.
“Everybody’s waiting,” she told me.
“But there’s an order,” I replied.
“But I’ve been here for a while,” she insisted, venom in her eyes.
I was incensed by the challenge. “You haven’t been here for twenty years,” I told her, which was just about how long our show had been on the air.
“Hopefully, not. Maybe that’s why I have better skin,” she said sarcastically, playfully stroking her face. I was aghast. “You know,” she continued, “there are some young people coming up.”
I couldn’t believe my ears, and turned to my cameraman, who was diligently and wisely rolling on the whole ugly exchange. At that moment, Giambattista wrapped with the person he was talking to and immediately acknowledged me. We launched into our brief interview, but I was shaking with anger throughout.
When my chat with Giambattista ended, I thanked him and turned to the camera. “Could you actually believe all that?” I asked, wide-eyed. I needed some kind of reassurance that this bizarre encounter with the FTV reporter was, as I felt, nothing short of lunacy. Actually, it was such a rude and tactless bit of behaviour that it was almost funny. But I wasn’t laughing. My field producer and cameraman, both as shocked as I was, tried to comfort me. They dismissed the young reporter as an arrogant and ignorant two-bit amateur, but I had been bitterly stung. What kind of mother brought up this young woman? I thought. What disrespect! I tried to pull myself together and stoically went out front to take my seat. But for whatever reason—call it thin skin, a sense of injustice, or maybe just overtiredness—the tears started to roll down my cheeks. And I just couldn’t stop crying.
