by Jeanne Beker
My mother closed her eyes, digesting what I’d said. And then, much to the surprise of all of us in that stressful meeting, she bravely told us that she had made her decision.
“I’m going to try to have the operation,” she told us. “As long as I have you to live for, I think I should try to do it.”
It was an announcement that was at once scary and inspiring. The tears ran down my cheeks as I silently applauded my dear, sweet mum—this amazing woman who had already been to hell and back— for having the courage to take such a daunting risk at such a vulnerable stage of her life. I was reminded of what had made her such a survivor in the first place.
We relayed the news to her cardiologist, who was impressed by her decision. Now the task would be to find someone who was willing to do the surgery. The surgeons the cardiologist usually worked with had flat out refused to operate. But some things are meant to happen. Miraculously, my friend Kate Alexander Daniels offered to help. She was friends with a brilliant young Toronto heart surgeon named Vivek Rao, and he kindly agreed to see my mother.
“I’ll be brutally honest with you,” he told me over the phone. “I’ll know right away, as soon as I meet her, whether I think she can endure this type of surgery. I won’t beat around the bush.” I was pleased with Dr. Rao’s straightforwardness, and started praying as hard as I could that my mum would pass the audition.
Dr. Rao showed up at my mother’s hospital room the next day. I was both surprised by and impressed with how young he was, and I could sense his great bedside manner immediately. He asked my mother to squeeze his hand, and he told her how great she looked, like someone in her seventies. My mother acted a bit shy, like a little girl. I suppose she was hoping to make a good impression. After all, her life depended on it.
Within a couple of minutes, Dr. Rao gave us the good news: He was confident he could perform surgery on my mother. And the sooner the better. But he warned us that the recovery wouldn’t be easy. It would be difficult enough for her to get her physical strength back—but the true healing hinged on her attitude and stamina. It would be up to me and my sister to encourage her through the whole process. The prospect of my mother’s undergoing this major ordeal was frightening. But our main focus had to be the fact that my mum was being given a second chance. My father’s old motto—Don’t be afraid, and never give up!—had never resonated so loudly with me. We made arrangements to have my mother moved downtown, to Toronto General Hospital, and started gearing up for the big operation, which was scheduled to take place a few days later.
The hours my sister and I spent in that hospital waiting room were the longest and scariest of my life. I don’t recall ever praying so hard. It seemed painfully unfair that after all my mother had lived through— the hell of the Holocaust, as well as my father’s long illness and eventual death—she was fighting for her life in some operating theatre.
It was anticipated that the surgery would take about three hours. But it was an agonizing five-hour wait before Dr. Rao came into the room to tell us that while my mother had come through the initial operation, they’d had to take her back into surgery and open her up again because she was having a bleeding problem. Another frightening couple of hours passed. Finally, Dr. Rao reappeared. The heroic doctor told us he had held his thumbs over my mother’s breastbone for about twenty minutes to finally stop the bleeding. She was okay now. The next twenty-four hours would be crucial, he said, but he felt she would be just fine. I was overwhelmed with relief.
I spent the next six weeks in a blur of hospital visits, determined to be there for my mum in any way possible. Eventually, my sister had to get back to L.A., so it was up to me to attend to things. Luckily, my team at the magazine could fill in for me, although I had to cancel a couple of exotic location shoots. It was just too risky to leave town while my mother was in recovery mode. After about two weeks, she moved into a wonderful convalescence hospital and slowly began to get her strength back. Her spirits were phenomenal. She charmed everyone she met, and everyone who cared for her. The optimism she displayed during that long recovery period—a kind of positive perseverance I hadn’t ever detected in my mum before—saw her through. Today, my mother wears the scar on her chest proudly, a testament to her tenacity. The survivor in her had endured once again. I was wildly inspired by her courage, and thankful that she dared to take a risk at an age when others might have given up.
FAME
As a kid, I always entertained the notion of becoming famous when I grew up. But I’ve paid a lot of attention to the nature of fame over the years, and I’ve had the chance to see what that monster we call celebrity can do—or not do—to people. However lustrous it seems, fame has a very dark side, and those who play into that can be lost forever. The stars I have met who can handle the heat usually use their celebrity status for higher purposes, and they never fail to inspire me.
LES GIRLS
A BUSINESS so consumed with appearances can make you crazy. It’s what I both love and hate about fashion. Over the twenty-five years that I have covered this industry, surrounded by some of the most extraordinary physical beauties on the planet, I have learned more than I ever wanted to know about how thin physical beauty can wear when sensitivity and intelligence are in short supply. I have also learned a lot about the fleeting nature of beauty—and not just because we weather and age, earn a few lines, and gain a few pounds. Our own perceptions of what or who is truly beautiful can often turn on a dime. Something is revealed, someone shows her true colours, and suddenly the gorgeous image shatters, the glow subsides, the light is extinguished forever. Of course, there are those beauties who constantly work on their inner selves: cultivating their talents and their compassion, nourishing their spirit by feeding on the positive, and basking in gratitude for what they have, not wallowing in resentment for what they don’t have. Those are the real timeless beauties, the girls who grow up to become great women—women who endlessly inspire me, and whom I support every step of the way.
When it comes to models, I have been lucky to have met many of the industry’s true beauties over the years—including the elegant Carmen Dell’Orefice, who was photographed by such legendary photographers as Horst P. Horst and Cecil Beaton in the 1940s; the indefatigable Twiggy, one of my original 1960s icons; the spectacular and exotic Iman, who broke through social barriers to become one of the highest-paid models of the 1970s; the fabulous supermodels of the 1980s, like Linda Evangelista, Naomi Campbell, Christy Turlington, Cindy Crawford, Elle Macpherson, Claudia Schiffer, and Helena Christensen, who really punched up high glamour; and the rash of exquisite, disparate girls who took the 1990s by storm, like Amber Valletta, Shalom Harlow, Kate Moss, Erin O’Connor, Karen Elson, and Alek Wek. By the millennium, Brazilian Giselle Bündchen had resurrected the notion of the super-model, and after my first conversation with her, I completely understood why. Giselle could light up a catwalk with her personality alone. The fact that she is stunningly beautiful is merely a bonus. And then there’s the arresting, quirky charm of Irina Lazareanu, the Romanian-born Canadian model who helped inspire the artist in some of the world’s most creative designers, including the mighty Karl Lagerfeld, Yohji Yamamoto, and Balenciaga’s Nicolas Ghesquière. Another Canadian sensation, the Polish-born beauty Daria Werbowy, is both gorgeous and remarkably grounded. More recent runway sensations, like the charming Vancouver native Coco Rocha and the captivating St. Louis–raised Karlie Kloss, add to my faith that personal charisma and intelligence are as important as physical beauty in today’s modelling arena.
Models are unquestionably the scene’s most electrifying and enigmatic players. They have the potential to make or break the image of a fashion house, yet often they are treated like cattle, mere mannequins hired to strut a designer’s vision. Some are vital muses for a house. Some are doggedly determined to use the scene as a stepping stone to greater heights, and wisely hone additional skills and work their connections to reinvent themselves once the modelling assignments begin to wane. I
’ve often said that while I may have helped to propagate some unfortunate myths about modelling by the very fact that Fashion Television often casts a glamorous light on the fashion world, I would never encourage my own daughters to pursue a career in the business. Yes, modelling can and does open many doors for girls who might otherwise never have the chance to travel and meet interesting people. And yes, modelling can be very lucrative. But that’s like winning the lottery. Only a precious few really make it out there; only the ultra strong survive.
My involvement as a judge on the popular TV series Canada’s Next Top Model—a show that I was cast in back in 2006, and that ran for three seasons—was a bit of roller-coaster ride, to say the least. Because the show dealt with a world I’m so passionate about, and because it did involve groups of beautiful, sensitive, flesh-and-blood girls—some of whom reminded me of my own daughters—emotions ran high. I realized what a powerful position the judges were in: We had the ability to change—at least to a degree—a girl’s life. That being said, I have always maintained that if a girl really has what it takes to make it as a model, and she’s prepared to work very hard, she doesn’t need to subject herself to the brutal trial of a reality television series. Still, there are those who want fame at any price. And if they’re willing to endure the gruelling tests that a show of this nature puts its contestants through … well, they will get the attention they crave, without a doubt. Trouble is, not everyone is psychologically ready for what can happen.
Most people realize by now that when it comes to television, where programs are produced in a limited time frame and are made to be dramatic and entertaining, few things can ever be that “real.” Still, this series, which is produced in different countries around the world, does reveal a lot about the machinations of the fashion world, and just how judged, scrutinized, and objectified models really are. Being tough with these impressionable, often naive young girls was rather gut-wrenching, and many nights, after hours of deliberations (most of which was never aired), I would go home quite depressed. I admit that there were times when I regretted decisions I made or conclusions I came to about some of the girls. But you have to realize that we judges were never allowed to know what really went on in the house the girls occupied. We were asked to judge solely on the work the girls produced, their behaviour on photo shoots and before the judging panel, and the odd personal encounter we had with them. I was often shocked by what I saw watching episodes when the show was broadcast, and I came to the realization that sometimes I had assessed these hopefuls without having seen the whole picture. Then again, in real life, models are constantly judged on the basis of limited encounters. That’s just the way the business operates, and if a girl can’t get her head around that and accept it, modelling is not the career for her.
The first cycle of Canada’s Next Top Model was shot in Victoria, British Columbia. We were on location for almost a month, and because it was the first time we had done the show, we were all a little green. I was particularly idealistic, and I allowed myself to fall in love just a little with most of these young women. Of course, we judges saw the girls only when they were on their best behaviour, and in retrospect, we had no idea who they really were.
When the Canada’s Next Top Model—or CNTM—judges first met one particular nineteen-year-old hopeful, we were astonished at how implausible a candidate she seemed. You’ve got to be kidding! I thought, the moment her waif-like frame came into view. Clad in the most un-chic getup imaginable—complete with passé pedal-pushers, bad shoes, and a poor-boy cap—this skinny red-haired girl struck us as the epitome of geek-dom. I was astonished that this mere slip of a girl—vulnerability personified—had made it into the top ten.
But we romantic fashion arbiters do tend to encourage seemingly impossible dreams sometimes. This contestant talked about why she was so intent on winning the competition, and our hearts melted. “I just want to get back at all those people who made fun of me growing up, who said that I looked like a beast,” she said. This young lady had undergone numerous dental operations to fix her unsightly smile. There was no doubt she had suffered as a kid, and while we judges suggested that she let go of all the bitterness she still harboured, we knew she felt she had something to prove. Right or wrong, it’s that passion that often spurs us on to miraculous heights.
This candidate had an unmistakable fire in that petite belly of hers, and over the next few weeks, we delighted in seeing her beauty and bravado blossom. Her photos were exceptionally strong, and we were enchanted by her range and her ability to transform herself as the occasion demanded. Over the course of the competition, this girl became emblematic of fashion’s inherent magic. Like a natural, she knew how to turn it on for the camera lens and bring fantasies to life. Of course, we hadn’t a clue about the goings-on at the model house. We had no idea that this aspiring young model, who wore her heart on her sleeve so flagrantly, also hoarded suitcases filled with candy under her bed and cried like clockwork. We also eventually discovered something else about her—something that would have disqualified her from the competition immediately. But the sad truth wasn’t revealed until it was too late.
All of us judges were concerned from the get-go that this contestant might have an eating disorder. She was exceptionally thin. And while her frame did translate well in photographs, we thought that perhaps she wasn’t eating properly. But she swore that it was a matter of genetics, that her whole family was ultra thin, and that she had no eating disorder. We demanded to see a doctor’s letter, and we did. The girl’s family doctor assured us that she was in good physical health, and we believed him.
Still, the title was no slam dunk. The other remaining finalist was pretty fabulous as well, though in a different way. She was also nineteen, but she was much more the girl-next-door type—lovely and grounded, although her potential as a high-fashion model was doubtful. Did we go with the quirky redhead or the more mainstream, athletic-looking contestant? At the eleventh hour, our judging panel was divided. When all was said and done, it was up to me to cast the deciding vote.
It was agonizing having to choose between the two. In the end, after hours of gruelling deliberation, I came to the conclusion that it was our quirky redhead who exuded that star quality. Her chameleon-like ways were captivating. And besides, she had perfect bones—all mouth, naturally clothes-hanger thin, with a penetrating gaze. When she was announced as the winner, she was overjoyed, and she promised us that she would work as hard as she could and make us all proud of her. It was exciting to see this Cinderella story play out, and for a few weeks, before the final episode aired and the winner was announced to the nation, I was inspired by this intriguing young lady who had been transformed before our very eyes. Most important, I was convinced she would have a modelling career.
Once the winner was announced, it was time for her to step forward. I urged my editor at The Globe and Mail to feature her in a fashion spread, and I felt proud when I heard that she had done a good job. She readily jumped into the spotlight and dutifully began doing interviews with a number of media outlets. I was at home one evening when the publicist at my TV station called to say that there was an item about to be broadcast on ET Canada that I might find upsetting. Apparently, our new Top Model had said some disparaging things about me. So I tuned in to the program.
The report featured quotes from an interview the girl had done for an upcoming issue of Inside Entertainment magazine. Our Top Model’s disturbing words were up there on the screen for the whole country to see. She called me a “workaholic with two failed marriages,” and compared me to the Meryl Streep character in The Devil Wears Prada! I was flabbergasted as I watched the report, which went on to say that she’d hated all the judges, and that we had only done the show “to be famous.” I was distraught that she had spoken about my personal life in this hurtful way. It especially stung when I flashed back to how I had cast the deciding vote in her favour. I was dumbfounded, enraged, and just plain hurt.
A few minutes after
the segment aired, my phone rang. It was the girl, beside herself, apologizing profusely for what had just been reported. She said that her comments had been taken out of context, and that she was so nervous during the interview she didn’t really know what she was saying. “I’ve never even seen The Devil Wears Prada!” she protested. I told her how hurt and disappointed I was, and while I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, I had a sinking feeling that maybe I had horribly misjudged our winner.
A producer at ET Canada offered me the opportunity to go on the program to defend myself, but I declined. I was assured that the interview was on tape, that the girl’s comments had not been taken out of context, and that she had not been coerced in any way. I was crestfallen that we had made such a grave error. It is possible to speculate about what would make a person behave so unpredictably and irrationally, and so clearly against her own best interests. Obviously, one explanation is nervousness in the face of intense media attention.
As it turned out, my friends in the industry were just as upset as I was, and I guess a lot of people simply wrote her off. Several months later, I heard that she was throwing in the towel and abandoning the modelling world. She also publicly admitted that she had been anorexic all along. I was shocked and saddened by the whole experience. And I felt sorry for this naive young woman who had lost what might have been a golden opportunity.
THE BATHTUB CAPER
EVER SINCE I was a teenager, the notion of walking on the wild side has held great appeal. While I was never a major rebel, I certainly indulged in my share of sex, drugs, and rock and roll growing up. But evidently, I had an inherent moralistic sense of moderation, because I never went too far, and thankfully, I never got into any big trouble. Certain moments of my impetuous youth have remained with me to this day, however. In the summer of 1969, for example, when I was seventeen and attending the Toronto Pop Festival, I jumped onstage in a yellow pompom-trimmed bikini top for an impromptu dance with the legendary rocker Ronnie Hawkins. A large photo of this suburban kid—and I was identified by name—boogying her brains out as the Hawk did his mean rendition of “Hey! Bo Diddley” appeared in the Toronto Telegram the next day. Of course, my mother was mortified, but I was proud as punch. The whole experience was downright exhilarating, and it unquestionably contributed greatly to who I am today.
