Finding Myself in Fashion (6 page)

The material was superb—heartfelt, emotional, brave, funny, tragic. I immediately understood why so many women related to it, and why so many famous actresses had jumped at the chance to be part of this unique production. After I got over the initial discomfort of having to articulate some of these sacred and profane thoughts and feelings, I realized these passages were overflowing with a pain and joy that was oddly liberating. I was reminded of my humanity, innocence, passion, and victimization. Suddenly, I couldn't wait to get up there and present these daring and powerful monologues. I called Stephen and enthusiastically accepted the honour. I had no idea how I would explain it all to my eighty-year-old mother, who was vacationing in Palm Springs but would be back just before opening night. She was bound to hear about
my return to the stage and would be eager to see what all the fuss was about. No way I could allow that!

For my appearance, I was teamed up with two wonderful Toronto actresses, Krista Sutton and Karen Robinson, and we were directed by Kate Lynch, who was a complete joy to work with. Actually, the show was one of the best experiences of my creative life. I'll forever be grateful for the thrill—after so many years of secretly longing to get back on the stage—of getting the chance to express myself in that intimate little theatre, before a receptive audience.

The monologues I chose included one by an elderly woman talking about having some kind of unexpected discharge, tantamount to a basement flood, “down there”—as in, “There was a flood down there!” I decided to assume a broad character for this dramatically endearing piece, choosing to play her as an old lady from the Bronx, complete with heavy New York accent. This monologue went over extremely well, and people were enchanted by my delivery—especially those who had no idea I had ever been an actress. I was proud as punch that I still had my chops. And there was another factor I secretly relished: I was in the early throes of menopause at the time. Undergoing intense hot flashes up there onstage, as we three performers spun tales of womanhood and the female experience, was strangely invigorating. Both the play and the performance resonated with me profoundly, and it was all because I had taken that risk, ventured out on some scary turf, and transcended my initial small-mindedness.

While I did invite Bekky, who was fourteen at the time, to see the show, I thought that Joey, at eleven, was a little too young. And I never did let my mum come. I told her it might freak her out too much. She reluctantly acquiesced. In retrospect, I regret that decision. After all, it was the role of a lifetime for me. Perhaps I could have been a little more courageous when it came to showing my mother the stuff I was made of. But that stint onstage served its purpose: It helped remind me that I was a true performer whose absolute delight is telling stories. Happily, it wouldn't be the last time.

APOCALYPSE THEN

FOR A LONG TIME, I was enamoured with the fashion world because it seemed so rarefied. Those of us who work in its trenches are, for the most part, die-hard romantics, hell-bent on keeping our glorious bubble intact. This is a world where we all aspire to express ourselves through beautiful and stylish imagery—whether we're creating it, reporting on it, selling it, or wearing it. So when we all got a loud and unexpected wakeup call smack dab in the middle of New York Fashion Week on September 11, 2001, we fashion warriors were affected in profound and peculiar ways. My own 9/11 experience had me questioning the validity of the business, and left me wondering about fashion's future.

New York Fashion Week had just got underway. I spent Sunday afternoon at the swish Fifth Avenue penthouse of Denise Rich, the estranged wife of Marc Rich, an international commodities trader who had been indicted in the United States on charges of tax evasion and making illegal oil deals with Iran. (Rich received a presidential pardon from Bill Clinton on his last day in office.) Rich himself was based in Switzerland, but his and Denise's artistic daughter, Ilona, had come up with a cool new clothing line, and she was showing it to the press at an intimate presentation in her mother's apartment. Amid Denise Rich's
hugely impressive art collection, a privileged assortment of top editors and stylish socialites sat sipping champagne, eating petit fours, and looking out at the glorious view of Central Park. I remember thinking this was everything I had ever imagined the good life in New York to be about. I was living the dream.

The next evening, my dear friend Carol Leggett accompanied me to the Marc Jacobs show, which was held in a big warehouse and tent down on Pier 54 on the Hudson River, about five kilometres north of the World Trade Center. Marc's shows always attracted a huge celebrity crowd, and this night was no exception, with luminaries like Sarah Jessica Parker, Chris Noth, Debbie Harry, Sophie Dahl, Sofia Coppola, Zoe Cassavetes, and Rosanna Arquette there to cheer Marc on and celebrate his upbeat 1960s-inspired collection, as well as the launch of his first eponymous fragrance.

It was a warm, clear, gorgeous night. Just a few blocks away, the Statue of Liberty was in full view. Carol and I marvelled at the opulence and perfection of the evening, which was also a fundraiser to benefit a dozen New York charities. Marc had proved to be a great success at the creative helm of Louis Vuitton, and his
savoir faire
as one of the world's most influential designers was in evidence in an entire wall lined with exquisite white gardenias—the scent of his new perfume. Post-show, hundreds of people feasted at long tables laden with sumptuous food. Wall Street and the Twin Towers loomed in the distance. In an ironic twist, a small fire-fighting tugboat shot mammoth sprays of water into the air, pumping up the inspiration for the scent: gardenias in water. The decadent spectacle was nothing short of exhilarating. “This reminds me of what led to the fall of the Roman Empire!” I joked to Carol. We never guessed it was the calm before the storm.

The next morning, I was up early for the Oscar de la Renta show, which was taking place in the tents at Bryant Park at Thirty-ninth Street and Sixth Avenue, just a few blocks from where I was staying. It was close to 9:00 a.m. when I turned on the TV to NBC's
Today Show
. A Toronto colleague, Serena French, who was reporting on fashion for the
National Post
, called and we started chatting about the designer shows we'd seen to date. Serena had her TV on as well, coincidentally also tuned to
The Today Show
.
During the course of our conversation, we both became aware that Katie Couric was saying something about a small plane having flown into one of the World Trade Center's towers. The report seemed to indicate that it was a private plane, and Serena and I remarked how freaky that was. Suddenly, we both witnessed an incredible image: What looked like another small plane was flying directly into the second tower! We stopped talking. And for about another fifteen minutes, we both kept silent—my jaw had literally dropped—as we watched the riveting, colossal tragedy unfold.

Serena finally broke the silence. “My God,” she said, “I've got to go and call my paper,” and we hung up. I continued watching the TV screen in horror, dumbfounded as the enormity of the disaster began to sink in. Another plane had gone down in a field in Pennsylvania. A fourth one had hit the Pentagon. The phone rang. It was the news director at Citytv.

“Your cellphone's not working. Are you aware of what's happening?” he asked.

“Yeah, I've just been watching it on TV,” I said.

“Well, can you get Arthur”—he was referring to my cameraman, Arthur Pressick—“and go down there to try to talk to some people?”

“Are you serious?” I asked. After all, my beat was fashion, not news. “I don't think that's such a good idea right now. But let me call Arthur and get right back to you.”

Arthur had just woken up, but he already knew what had happened.

“They want us to go down there,” I told him.

“Are they crazy?” he retorted. “I'm not risking my life.”

I totally concurred. Besides, the authorities had issued strong warnings for people to stay indoors and not go anywhere near the towers. The Oscar de la Renta show was obviously cancelled. I wondered if they would cancel Fashion Week altogether. The phone lines hadn't gone dead yet, so I called my mother to let her know I was okay. Then I contacted my sister in L.A., waking her up and telling her to turn on the TV. Finally, I called my boyfriend at the time, Jack, who was in a board meeting and was oblivious to what was happening. Carol called me from her downtown apartment, hysterical. “Can you believe this!?”
she asked. And before I could answer, she started screaming, “Oh, my God! That entire building just collapsed! I have to go …” And she was gone. Everything had become a blur. I rang Arthur's room again. “Do you think maybe we should just go down as far as Bryant Park, to try to get some reactions from people?” Arthur reluctantly agreed, and so we warily made our way out of the hotel and across Forty-fourth Street.

Hilary Alexander, the fashion editor of
The Daily Telegraph
, was the first person we ran into. She seemed a little frantic and was definitely wide-eyed. “Did you hear that there were supposed to be eight hijacked planes but only four have been accounted for?” she asked. The implication was that the others could strike anywhere, at any time. I couldn't begin to imagine what that meant, but we were determined to carry on. Sixth Avenue and the streets around it were utterly free of traffic, save for the odd police car or ambulance screeching downtown. Arthur and I bravely walked south as scores of people streamed towards us heading north. They were moving faster than usual, eager to get as far away from Ground Zero as possible—eager to get home. The subway system had been shut down, and the odd bus that passed us was crammed with passengers. Small groups were huddled around boom box radios, hungry for the latest information. Every conversation I could tune in to revolved around the horror of the terrorist attack. Some people were sobbing, and others stared straight ahead, like zombies. Sirens could be heard everywhere, but there were no vehicles, just a sea of pedestrians, packs of frightened people trying to make sense of the insanity. I heard jets overhead. Could any of these be the “unaccounted for” planes that Hilary had mentioned? Maybe they were planning to strike the fashion tents at Bryant Park? As crazy as that sounds now, it seemed like a plausible notion at the time. After all, if these were terrorists, why wouldn't they want to make their voices heard at a place where they knew the international press had gathered? My imagination was running rampant, and with one eye on the sky above, I felt my heart starting to beat faster and faster.

Finally, we arrived at the Bryant Park tents, their sides decorated with the gritty graffiti of the New York artist and designer Stephen Sprouse, who would die just a few short years later. A row of security
guards stood at the entrance. The day's shows had been cancelled, and no, I couldn't get a comment from anyone from the Council of Fashion Designers of America—everyone was tied up in an emergency meeting. I told Arthur that I wanted to interview people about what they were feeling. I saw the friendly face of the runway photographer Randy Brooke. I had known Randy for years—he was a laid-back, cheerful guy. But now, the fear in his eyes was palpable. He started telling me about a buddy who had been near the World Trade Center at the moment of the first crash. “Are you rolling?” I asked Arthur. Randy proceeded to give us a graphic description of what his friend had seen. We were entranced.

All of a sudden, like a tidal wave of terror, everybody started running and pushing and yelling. I looked up at the sky, certain that a fiery jet was coming right for us in Bryant Park. Cops were running in all directions, and the throngs of people on the street in front of the big tent scattered, everyone dashing every which way. I saw Arthur out of the corner of my eye. Amazingly enough, he was straddling the curb, still rolling in an attempt to capture the insanity. I huddled up against a wall with some young guy I recognized as another fashion reporter. I was shaking. Chaos reigned. It might have been a few seconds. It felt like a hundred years.

Gradually, things calmed down. “It's all right, everybody,” a cop called out. “It's okay. Somebody said they were blowing up the Chrysler Building. Evidently, it was a false alarm. Just try to get inside now.” The young guy hugged me and told me that he was scared too, but it was going to be all right. All I could think about were my girls and how I had to call them immediately. I raced to a phone booth and tried to call home, but the line was dead. I had never felt so scared and alone. I flashed on my parents and the war stories they had told me growing up—the desolation, the panic, the fear, the random way they would run into certain people and totally lose track of others. This is what war must feel like, I thought. Maybe the Third World War was breaking out. My safe, cozy, charmed life was over.

I searched the sea of faces for a familiar one, and there was Barbara Atkin, the fashion director of Holt Renfrew.

“Jeanne, where's your hotel?” she asked.

“Just a few blocks away,” I told her. “Let's go!”

A couple of others who were on their own joined us. No one wanted to be alone. When we got back to the hotel, the lobby was filled with people and television sets. Everybody was glued to the screens, trying to figure out how the world had changed, and how they would get home. There was a conscious, deep awareness that home was the only place that really mattered now, and the sudden desperation to see loved ones had everyone on tenterhooks. But getting home would be a challenge.