by Jeanne Beker
I thought of all the years I’d spent in these trenches, working my butt off, going where no TV reporter had gone before, carving out a niche that would appeal to a whole generation of fashion lovers. And then the insecurity set in. Did I actually look horrible and wrinkly and dumpy and grotesque? Despite how hard I’d tried to look attractive, maybe I was really a hoary old bag who was hanging on to an illusion. Was it time to give up and make way for a new generation? Had Anouk Aimée been wrong all those years ago? Was fashion no longer keeping me young, relevant, and vital?
The lights went down, and the presentation began. The beauty of Giambattista’s romantic garments soothed me, and I slowly began to take heart. The rudeness of the young reporter was deplorable, but I began to see that it was based on nothing but ignorance and blind jealousy. Shame on her! I made up my mind to turn this negative into a positive: I would make sure this hideous instance of ageism would be exposed as part of our coverage of the Ungaro collection. Thankfully, our camera had captured all the nastiness. This would make for great television, even as it revealed an enlightening, if unsavoury, slice of human behaviour.
Back in Toronto, my creative and crafty producer, Howard Brull, a man who adores the absurd and unexpected, had a field day with our story. Happy to let the FTV reporter “really have it,” he cut the video in a way that made this heartless young woman look like a little witch, padding the audio track with cat yowls as she dissed me. He even had whiskers and a pair of cat ears drawn on the girl’s head! It was a little over the top, but still hysterically funny. I’d got my revenge.
The segment aired to much fanfare, and the reaction from our viewers was extremely heartening. Everyone agreed that the young reporter was a creep, and no one could believe that I’d been subjected to such mean rubbish. To this day, people still talk about the segment. I only wish the reporter had seen herself acting so crassly, and being so rightfully condemned. Actually, since our show airs in close to one hundred countries, maybe she did eventually see it. If so, I wonder what she thought. Or more important, I wonder what her mother thought. Still, while her rudeness initially threw me, it ended up reminding me of how pleased I am to be my age. Happily, aging has made me better, not bitter. And like Anouk Aimée, I credit fashion with keeping me stylishly poised on my fifty-something-year-old toes.
EXOTICA
FOR YEARS, I had heard people say how their trip to India had transformed them, raised their consciousness, and resulted in a profound spiritual experience. I knew that one day, I’d make it my business to get to India. But that would be in the far-off future. For the time being, the country was not at the top of my must-visit list. Maybe I was scared of what it would be like to witness all that squalor and gut-wrenching poverty I’d heard about, scared of how it all might affect me.
Then, in the spring of 2006, Michael King struck up a connection with the Indian tourist board and began making plans for both FQ and SIR, our new men’s magazine, to produce two fashion spreads in Jaipur. The trip would begin with half our team—Michael; Abel Muñoz, the associate art director; Hayley Atkin, now the associate fashion editor; and me—journeying to the northeastern Assam region, to Kaziranga National Park, for a two-day elephant safari. Evidently, my time had come to travel to these most exotic places. Suddenly, I was enthralled by the idea. And while I was a bit apprehensive at the prospect of seeing the kind of impoverished living conditions I’d heard so much about, I knew I was ready for some life-transforming experiences.
It was night when we entered the gates of Kaziranga National Park, and though the long drive from Guwahati had been exhausting, our excitement was mounting. We continued on to the remote Bonhabi Resort, a modest hotel with fourteen unremarkable guest rooms. A few minutes after I was shown to my room, the electricity went down. I panicked and screamed in the pitch darkness. I’d never felt more vulnerable. It was as though this mini blackout was some kind of signal of the beginning of my spiritual journey. Moments later, the lights came on again as the generator kicked in. I noticed a small painting of the Arc de Triomphe hanging over one of the beds and marvelled at what a world away I was from my beloved Paris. As I unpacked my things, I started worrying that my mother and the girls wouldn’t know how to reach me—cellphones had no reception out here, in the middle of nowhere. The fact that no one would be able to find me was at once scary and liberating.
At 4:30 the next morning, there was a knock at my door: time for our elephant safari. My excitement mounted as I donned my cherished Ganesh pendant, which I had bought at a St. Germain boutique the season John Galliano riffed on Bollywood. Ganesh, the Hindu god of protection, has an elephant’s head. I figured that since I was going to be riding an elephant in search of white rhinos and a Bengal tiger (for which the park is famous), I’d need all the protection I could get.
The mist was surreal, and the sun was barely up when we arrived at the departure area in the park. I was filled with wonder as a dozen large elephants came into view, all saddled up and ready to go. Most could accommodate three passengers, but some of the larger ones would carry up to five, with some people riding sidesaddle. There were three adorable baby elephants milling around beneath their mothers, some nursing from time to time as we set out across the misty plain. Soon we were seeing deer, wild boar, and many of the mighty white rhinos, which looked prehistoric with their leathery, armour-like skin. All the while, I was enchanted by the three baby elephants obediently walking beside their working mums, scooping bunches of tall grass as they made their way through the sunny fields. The light was ethereal, and everyone was stone silent as we watched for the next amazing beast. The next couple of hours felt like a totally mystical experience.
Back at the resort, we downed a hearty breakfast, returning to the park at 8:00 a.m. for an open-Jeep safari ride. This time, it was the rare Bengal tiger we were trying to spot. Eighty-six of them lived in the park, but sightings were extremely rare. Seven of us packed into the tiny Jeep, with a park security guard armed with a rifle riding on the back. We held on to the metal bars for dear life as we bounced merrily along the bumpy, winding road through the lush jungle. The birdlife was stupendous, with brilliant blue kingfishers, cranes, flying storks, and eagles perched in trees. There were sightings of more rhinos, several water buffalo, and more elephants. Every time a creature was spotted, the guard on the back of our Jeep yelled out: “Rhino!” Or, “Buffalo!” Or, “Elephant!” Or, “Deer!” Or, “Monkey!” At one point he called out, “Butterflies!” I turned to see a delicate cloud of tiny white wings disperse into yet another field of dreams.
Two days later, I had fallen hopelessly in love with the gentle people and beautiful culture of the region. But it was time to leave this Shangri-La and make our way back to Delhi to prepare for our big fashion shoot. As we drove along the highway, I was awestruck as I watched rural life unfold outside the car window. It seemed that it was mostly women, many dressed rather beautifully, who toiled in the fields and the rice paddies. Meanwhile, their men were out on the main drag, doing their business at stores that served as village gathering places. Once in a while, I would see a man sitting at a sewing machine—a tailor, perhaps—right in the doorway of his shop. At other open shops, I saw barbers giving men shaves and mechanics working on auto parts. Outside many of these shop doors, the garbage was heaped up, but no one seemed to mind. I couldn’t believe that it was okay to be living with all this filth and disarray around, yet the women were so beautifully made up, dressed so impeccably in gorgeous traditional apparel. There was something about the strange culture here that I just couldn’t comprehend.
One bustling town, Nagin, left us all speechless. We gazed out the windows, shocked by the terrible poverty and the sight of goats and cows wandering aimlessly about, the bicycles and motorcycles and tricycle rickshaws, the chaos and filth. There was also the ubiquitous rancid stench. But ultimately, it was the exquisite colour of life that touched us. On the outskirts of town stood a big plaster Ganesh, like some kind of grand circus fi
xture watching over this outrageous carnival of human existence.
After a night in Delhi, we hired an old air-conditioned bus to transport us to Jaipur for our fashion shoots. Such luxury, at such a low price! From the cool comfort of our private, privileged conveyance, we bid adieu to the big city and watched the abysmal outskirts pass by the bus windows. But even in these depressing surroundings, among old buildings reduced to rubble, there was a kind of poetry: A handsome young man sat on a curb, selling garlands of marigolds. There was a lot of construction going on—hope for India’s future—but the conditions the men were working in seemed horrendous: Their world was so dirty and dusty. We saw dozens of workers crammed into dilapidated trucks and buses. One pickup truck carried men in the cab upfront, while a handful of women, their heads covered, were crammed into the open back. Grimy-faced children with irresistible dark eyes relentlessly appealed to us from the roadside. At one point, Michael opened the bus window and threw out a few rupees, but unfortunately, only one kid caught the money, and a scuffle ensued.
All along the highway, I saw men bathing in square concrete tubs; some were even squatting, defecating right out in the open. I was shocked at this total disregard for privacy and propriety. Here were humans reduced to a crass, animal state! As we journeyed farther south, the northern lushness slowly began to dissipate, and then suddenly, the terrain was very desert-like. The style of dress changed as well: Colours remained vibrant, but the women’s saris took on a Middle Eastern aspect. All heads were covered as the intense heat escalated. Long lines of camels loaded down with huge bundles of hay slowly trekked down the sides of the highway. There were communities of tents situated in open fields, the temporary homes of nomadic people. Other men and women lived in crude makeshift shacks by the side of the road, all extremely filthy. How couldn’t this make for a wretched existence?
We stopped for gas, and a trio of gorgeous, colourfully dressed young children carrying big brass urns on their heads approached our bus, smiling and waving. They didn’t ask us for money, but on my way to the loo, I forked over twenty rupees to each of them. They were wildly delighted and readily posed for our photographer. These adorable urchins were so picture perfect, so happy. Their infectious energy lifted our spirits.
Our destination was the four-hundred-year-old Samode Palace, which was located about thirty minutes outside Jaipur. This would be our base for the next three days. The palace was located in the sparsely populated village of Samode. Most of the male villagers were employed at the palace, which had been functioning as a five-star hotel since 1987, though the Prince of Samode still resided in one section.
When we arrived at the palace gates, we disembarked from the bus and entered the grounds on foot, incredulous at the majesty that awaited us. The palace grounds were impeccably manicured, with fuchsia bougainvillea lining the pink gravel pathway to the grand staircase. Monkeys swung from trees, adding to the full-out exoticism of the experience. The ancient palace was staggeringly beautiful, with numerous inner courtyards, one hosting a puppet theatre. There were countless terraces, a huge swimming pool, and mammoth rooms featuring intricately hand-painted walls. Each of the twenty-four hotel rooms was exquisite. I was assigned to a grand suite with blue drapery, marble floors, woven rugs, and two ornately carved antique beds. This had to be the most amazingly sumptuous hotel room I had ever occupied—the level of luxury was staggering. The contrasts I was witnessing in India were simply incomprehensible.
Our two fashion shoots were the stuff that dreams are made of. In the first, our striking red-haired model, the Toronto-based Lisa Coté, portrayed a jet-setting Westerner and mistress of the breathtaking palace. Lisa looked incredibly beautiful in every shot—one taken in front of the palace stairs, another in a fabulous painted living room, yet another in my very own suite. Hayley had brought a diverse assortment of European and Canadian designer clothing from Toronto, and our Mumbai-based producer sourced some local Indian garments, making for an intriguing global mix. The second layout we were producing was for SIR, our men’s magazine, and starred Nick, a handsome male model from Mumbai. The fantasy story we concocted cast our model in the role of a cool and stylish photographer on safari, and his co-star was an elephant we hired from Jaipur. While that town was only thirty minutes away by car, it took the elephant about ten hours to walk to our location at the Samode Bagh, a garden that was originally the royal retreat but had begun operating as a hotel, with tents for rooms.
There was a bit of a production crisis when we arrived at the garden. Our lovely elephant was all decked out with colourful flags hanging from his ears and an opulent red-and-gold saddle, as if he were going to take part in some celebratory holiday procession. This obviously was not the look we were going after, and we had to break it to the owner that his beast had been cast as a safari elephant and was just a tad overdressed!
Once that hiccup was resolved, the day proceeded wonderfully, and we got some terrific shots, all with a very different feel from those we had taken at the palace. Lisa had wrapped all her shooting, but she came along for the fun, clad in sexy, tiny shorts. When she got off the bus, a group of young boys who’d been hanging around began to howl with laughter. The sight of this six-foot-tall glamazon with the alabaster skin must have been strange enough. But those totally exposed legs that went on forever were a true sight to behold for these kids, who had never seen anything quite like that before. The laughter continued until Lisa modestly donned a sarong. Still, the kids’ curiosity had been piqued, and they swarmed around her. For the rest of the afternoon, a never-ending parade of local kids came by to check out the excitement. It was heart-rending to see them so shabbily dressed. They all kept asking for pens or chocolates or rupees, but they didn’t seem miffed that we had none to give them. “Helloooooo!” they kept saying, sweetly greeting us. “What’s your name?” That was about all the English they knew. They were so excited to have us there in their midst. And I wanted to rescue them all. But from what? The profound poverty, I supposed. Yet all these kids seemed so totally carefree and happy, just glad to be living in the moment.
For one of our last shots, at dusk, our producer, Katisha, wrangled a group of local female dancers, all garbed in colourful red-and-yellow saris. Nick pretended to photograph them with a vintage camera as they danced in a field. Unfortunately, the field was rife with brambles, and the barefoot dancers weren’t having an easy time at all. Passionate about getting just the right shot, our photographer, Colston Julian, kept screaming, “Okay, girls—dance!” And then, “Faster … faster!” The dancers obediently whirled and twirled while our spirited photographer kept barking orders, constantly snapping away. It was rather comical at first, but we soon realized that some of the girls were really in pain. Michael and I wanted to call it a wrap, but these dancers were troopers, and they giggled on despite the physical misery they may have been experiencing. I was awed by their commitment to the project, and we finally got our amazing shot. Suffering for fashion never looked so good!
On our last day in India, we headed to Jaipur for some last-minute power shopping. As soon as we arrived, we realized our bus was far too large to navigate through the busy, narrow streets. So we hired a few of the three-wheel bicycle rickshaws and their drivers to pedal us around. Although the day was steamy, these earnest young guys were unfazed and energetically rode us through the bustling city. Traffic was utterly chaotic, with horns blasting, motorcycles cutting in front of us, and cars and trucks competing for road space. The stench, the smog, the dirt, and the filth—and the stench, the stench, the stench!—joined with the noise, the colour, the characters, and the lively shops to make a wild assault on the senses. It was one of the most exhilarating rides I have ever been on, and I don’t think I have ever felt so alive. Still, the squalor was totally wretched and utterly stupefying.
We didn’t have much time, so we hurriedly did our haggling at a handful of shops and market stalls, and I came away with some choice treasures, including antique jewellery, assort
ed textiles, embroidered pillowcases, and a small silver elephant. Then it was back on the bus to the Rambagh Palace Hotel for a quick lunch before heading to Delhi and the long trip home. The sheer magnificence of the plush palace took our breath away. It was situated on the most elegant grounds, surrounded by pristine manicured lawns and flowering trees. This was luxury to the max, and the tremendous disparity between this and the crass and colourful inner city was too much to fathom. But perhaps it’s this very juxtaposition—this poignant heaven-and-hell reality—that ultimately is India, and is precisely what makes this remarkable country so incredible. It’s all a metaphor for the absolute agony and ecstasy of the human condition, and a powerful reminder of the depths to which we can sink and the heights to which we can soar.
AT HOME
As passionate as I am about my work, and as much as I bask in the rewards it brings me, heart and home are the true centre of my life. The romantic, domestic me struggles to get that right, knowing that without love and my strong sense of family, my glamorous career would be lacklustre and meaningless. And so, as part of my juggling act this past decade, I kept an open mind as I searched for love, all the while making sure I was there for the people who meant the most to me. Making a home for my growing girls, being there for my aging mother, and still taking care of my own emotional needs as a woman wasn’t easy. But I was determined to have it all, even though I sometimes broke my heart trying.
BACK ON TRACK
AS THE WEEKS and months after my marriage breakup passed, I began to see myself and my two daughters as a loving trio, an invincible little team that was growing stronger and more independent in the aftermath of what had happened. I was hell-bent on learning to love life again, on savouring all the good things I still had and being receptive to the positive opportunities that I felt confident would be heading my way.
