The threads that bound us

The Fabric of The Complicated Relationship Between My Mother and Me

In 1972, when I was nine years old, my mother introduced me to Vogue magazine. As soon as it arrived, we would pore over the pages together. My mother knew the names of all the top models. Karen Graham, a classic beauty who was the face of the Estée Lauder makeup brand, was her favourite. We both loved Penelope Tree’s offbeat look. My mother knew all about Penelope’s lineage and that she the daughter of Marietta Tree, an American socialite and political reporter.

My mother also introduced me to the top fashion designers of the day, Bill Blass, Valentino, Halston, Gianfranco Ferré.

My mom was a complex person. She was one of the youngest children to be liberated from the Auschwitz concentration camp. She arrived in Montreal from Germany at the age of eleven after a horrifying odyssey that included living in a ghetto, a labor camp, a concentration camp, and a displaced persons camp.

It became her goal to seamlessly blend into Canadian society, and wearing the “right” clothes was an effortless way for her to do that. She was petite and had a great eye for fashion. The only thing that betrayed the illusion was the number tattoo on her left arm.

Fast forward to when I was born, I became her best fashion accessory. In Montreal, the fashion district was located on Chabanel Street. The showrooms, usually closed to the public, allowed customers to shop between 9 am and 1 pm on Saturdays. My mother and I made frequent trips, paying the showrooms for our shopping hauls in cash. It was from my mother that I learned about Boxing Day. On our first Boxing Day excursion together, we hopped on the subway and headed to St. Catherine Street. We got there so early that the stores weren’t even open yet.

Fashion was not just a hobby for me; it became my career. In 1990, I launched OverCat, a communications agency specializing in fashion and lifestyle clients. One of our first clients was Nino Cerruti, who had a boutique in Hazelton Lanes, an upscale shopping destination in Downtown Toronto. Other clients included Carolina Herrera, Club Monaco, Urban Behaviour, Winners, Bluenotes and the Festival of Canadian Fashion. We also launched Victoria’s Secret in Canada.

In 2008, my mother chose to end her life.

A few months later, I bought the DVD of the documentary Valentino: The Last Emperor, a movie I know my mother would have loved. From the comfort of my family room, I sobbed through the entire film.

My mother has always taken up a lot of space in my life. Not always in a positive way. But she definitely laid the groundwork for my career. What I wear, is inexorably tied to who I am. When I went through her wardrobe after she died, I kept a Bill Blass, two-tone, asymmetrical down jacket. It looks as fashionable today as when my mother wore it in the seventies.

After I moved to Toronto in 1985, my mother did a big purge of her wardrobe. My absolute favourite piece of hers was a Halston, champagne-coloured, satin, flowy jumpsuit. I was horrified to learn she had given it away. I am an avid vintage designer shopper, and I haven’t given up hope of finding it.

My husband and I have flipped five houses over the years. Most people prioritize kitchens and bathrooms. We focus on closets to accommodate my ever-expanding wardrobe.

My mother taught me to be bold in my fashion choices. My last purchase was a black, Courrèges Réédition vinyl mini-skirt -a risky choice for someone over sixty. People often comment that they love what I am wearing but are not confident enough to pull it off themselves. I always say the same thing: “Of course you can! You just need to own it.”

My love of fashion courses through my veins, as does my inherited trauma, both directly attributable to my mother. When she was alive, fashion was a common language that we shared. Now, it is one of the ways I stay close to her.