Fashion Forward

Barbara: So last night, my daughter Stefanie was part of a fashion show presentation of the graduating class of her university program—Ryerson University Fashion Design. Four years of work, four years of growth, four years to prepare for this moment: the next phase in her life, the one where she faces the world and, hopefully, finds her passion and talent fitting nicely into the market and demand.

For me it was an emotional moment, sitting in the semi-dark in the audience, Phil and Stefanie, Deb and Colin, and my sister at my sides as we waited for the show to begin. Oh, let me just interrupt my unchecked tears here by adding that thanks to a perfect storm of Deb’s computer somehow deleting Colin’s e-ticket which prompted a contrite visit to the box office combined with Colin’s shall we say Recognizability Quotient, instead of all of us being seated in a hodgepodge throughout the auditorium (each of our assigned-seat tickets had been purchased separately and so we were all seated apart), we were graciously whisked to THE FRONT ROW and seated all together!! Yes, fame does have its privileges. And I was happy to partake thereof! Thanks, Colin *mwah*!!

Okay, back to my maternal sobbing. For the record, I didn’t expect to be so overwhelmed with emotion. I don’t know why. One would think, given my close relationship with my daughter, knowing that this would be her last school-inspired fashion show, that she would be facing her future and most probably one involving a move out of our city and most likely the country, I would’ve been inclined toward heavy emotion going in. But I think I was too elated and excited. More distracted by the promise and potential and—because I know her collection so well—so filled with parental pride about how it turned out that I forgot to be wistful. Instead, we all met for dinner before the show and feted Stefanie and laughed and caroused and I was just feeling so so good.

Flash forward to the lights going down and us sitting side by side in that theatre and the music starting up and my emotions suddenly and unexpectedly swelling and shifting to those of the proud mom who’s watched her child grow from a baby (who at 18-months would routinely pull herself out of her crib to change into elaborate outfits then crawl back into bed where we would find her later, sound asleep, peacefully donning—over pajamas—layers of swank tops, several posh necklaces, and a bedazzled headband or two) to a crayon-carrying child (no blank page would go left undrawn) to a fashion-curious teenager who HATED to sew, to a first year fashion design student (who had to turn down an opportunity to go to a top American university and who shouldered the disappointment with grace and determination) with lots of talent but only basic skills, to a mature and dedicated young woman who works two jobs (one as a paid design assistant at amazing Canadian fashion house, Greta Constantine, and one at super-cute retail store, Frock), designing several illustrations for online mags, while also going to school full-time, honing her sewing skills, developing her creative talent, and designing and building the extremely work-intensive collection you see here.

Stefanie and I holding the gorgeous programs--yes, those are her dresses in the spread.
Behind the mag, Deb, Colin and my sister,  Nicole.

It all came rushing at me as the music started and the show began and I had to literally hold myself in my seat to prevent myself from grabbing my daughter and clutching her to my chest and sobbing out loud.

But the show did go on—and it was a magnificent display of talent and vision. Every student was required to design and create 5 outfits from any category they chose. There was everything from ballet tutus to Shakespearean costumes to bondage-wear to wearable art to men’s and children’s fashion to outfits for the fashion-conscious woman of today. Stefanie chose to design for women—and that’s the market she sees herself designing for in the future. Clothes that are classy and still sexy, that are beautifully and lovingly crafted, that are timeless while also being fashion forward. I know I’m her proud mother, but I also know what I like—and I LOVE her collection.

I also love the girl, this daughter of mine, who never stops dreaming and creating and pushing herself, no matter what the obstacles. Both my daughters constantly remind me that this is the joyful and courageous way we all should—and can—be living our lives every day.

Deb: I was praying that Barb was going to blog about Stefanie today. If she didn’t, I would have. Colin and I love Stefanie and have always stood in awe of her considerable talent and grace. Stefanie was nervous last night although you would not have known it until she said so. That is part of her charm. I had seen the sketch designs and knew they were good. I started to realize just how good, when we got there and found out that her designs would be closing the show. Then we saw them and knew why. They were ethereal and wearable, fanciful and edgy, sophisticated and sexy. They were Stef.

As I sat in that theatre I had my own feelings ruminating in my head, as this was the school that I had attended for four years, and we were in the theatre where I had done all my shows.  And for the record it did not look smaller. And I remembered how it felt after the last show I was in and how, although scared, I felt I had the world at my feet.  I hope Stefanie feels that way. Because she does. 

The dresses are all silk chiffon, with details in leather and wool.

Us at the end of the show (Nicole took the pic!).

All photos: Philippe Ayoub, all dresses by Stefanie Ayoub. All rights reserved.

PS You can see more of Stefanie's work here.

Debra-Debbie-Deb

Deb: As I wind my way through life, changing, adapting, and reinventing myself, my name has come along for the ride.

What’s in a name, you might ask?

For me? My name game reflects and calls up various stages of my life.

I was born Debra Anne McGrath. My parents loved the name and chose to give me the simplest version—not Deborah, not Debrah, but Debra.

Ironically throughout my life, not one single solitary person has spelled it the simple way that my parents thoughtfully intended. Somehow that amuses me. Did these people maybe perceive me as more complex than I am? I will say yes. After all, I am writing this.

My name when I started school in Grade One was Debra. My teachers introduced me as Debra to the class and by the time the bell rang for our first recess I was Debbie to all who knew me. And I didn’t fight it. Even at that young age, I understood it. Debbie suited me. I was Debbie. Debbie Anne—perky, outgoing, full of beans! Debbie was my style and it attached itself to me right through Grade Thirteen.

I will admit with a slightly red face that there was one misguided period around Grade Four when I announced to the schoolyard at large that I would only answer to “Gidget”. (reddening) It didn’t take. Unless you include my sad attempts at referring to my “Gidget self” in the third person. (Burning red)

I should also say at this point that people throughout my life constantly tell me that I look like Debbie Reynolds. I even won a Debbie Reynolds lookalike contest at a Toronto City Hall Canada Day event. In fairness it wasn’t a Debbie Reynolds’s lookalike contest, it was a general lookalike contest. But I was picked out by one of the judges as a Debbie Reynolds’s lookalike. There were lots of other lookalikes—Burt Reynolds, John Travolta, Jimmy Walker, and Linda Evans. But I won and my prize was a television. I was thrilled. And that win confirmed my Debbieness.

Me at my Debbie Reynoldest

When I got to college and desperately needed to be taken seriously, I decided to adopt my given name, Debra. After all, the other girls in my acting class seemed exotic and mysterious. The most colourful and exciting of these girls had hairy armpits and legs. I was so envious of them. How bold of them how “I am woman hear me roar” of them. I was determined to shed my suburban Debbie and grow the hair under my arms and legs, but the patchy results and my Mother’s voice ringing in my ears put a stop to my attempt at earthy goodness.

So Debra was re-born. I was now Debra McGrath. Dropped the Anne. After all, this was way before the Tiffani Amber Thiessen’s  or the Jonathan Taylor Thomas’s. Debra was a serious actress. Someone to be reckoned with. My imagined reviews included, “Debra’s portrayal of Titania was so nuanced, so ethereal, this critic was transported.” Except it wasn’t. I wasn’t ... Titania, I mean. I was “fairy”. Unnamed fairy. With one speech. The main fairy, mind you, but that still didn’t stop me from sucking. “Over hill, over dale, over done.”

At that moment I would have given anything to retreat to the Debbie. Or even to the D. Small d. Clearly, I wasn’t worthy of the Debra. I felt that at any moment Deborah Kerr herself was going to strip me of my gossamer wings.

But Debra I remained all those years. Through sitcoms, stage plays, waitressing, and The Second City, I remained Debra, ever hopeful that the sheer class of “The Debra” would take me far. With the name Debra I could cling to some modicum of credibility, despite my less than stellar credits.

Then I met my husband and from day-one he called me Deb. Not Debbie, not Debra.  And after a while (read: post menopause), I began to like this handle. Deb. Unadorned. Simple. No bullshit. Just Deb. And my favourite part is that my parents now call me Deb too. And it must be tough for them because they christened me Debra and they loved that name for me. But they got it too. Deb. Approachable. Deb.

So, once again, I have changed my professional name to Deb. Deb McGrath.

See what I mean? It’s good, isn’t it? You know where you stand with Deb.

“Hi, I’m Deb. I’m friendly. I’m accessible. I don’t take myself too too seriously. I’m over myself. I’m Deb.”

But I will always love Debra because that’s how I started. That’s the name my parents proudly gave me.

And I will always love Debbie because when I hear it called out, I know it’s a childhood friend whom I am always thrilled to see.

But now I’m Deb. Deb McGrath.

However I would be remiss if I did not thank its predecessors who made “Deb” the person she is today.

So ... My heartfelt thanks go out to Debra Anne McGrath. Debbie Anne McGrath. Gidget McGrath, Debra McGrath Mochrie, Debra Mochrie, and Debbie Anne.

Thanks, ladies.

I could not be Deb without you.

Barbara: Well, I envy you your name/names/handle/alias/tag/moniker/etc celebration. Mostly because even at my ripe old age, I wish my name was some other one. I will answer to Barb—and do, because almost every single person calls me Barb. Even those who’ve just been introduced to me. Even those who haven’t yet heard someone else call me Barb. Even people who are supposed to be super-polite to me. No, it’s always with the “Barb”. Funny. Anyway, I don’t hate it, it’s fine, it’s just not my … name, ya know? And Barbara? Never really embraced or loved that either. Like my poor daughter, Michele, always wish I had a name that felt more “me”. But I’m getting there. I think, to your point, Deb, “I could not be Barbara without you”. Gotta love that!

Deb: Barb, this is killing me. I had no idea you did not relate to your name. I think this is something you could open up. Why? Who do you see yourself as? What name would you give you? No pressure, but I think it is fascinating. Me? I think you are Barbara—Barbara, gorgeous Barbara. Barbara Feldon, Barbara Eden. Lovely Barbara. Three syllable Barbara. Lovely name. Of course, you have to feel that way too. That is KEY! Do our kids like their names? What else would they have called themselves? What about our readers? 

Do we all hate our name at one time or another?

Barbara: Yeah, Michele does NOT like her name. We've niggled on that one for so long, trying to come up with some kind of nickname or something she’d feel is more “her”. But, nope, nothing yet (and please don’t mention her childhood nickname!!). Myself, I always wanted something more modern. My sisters have such sexy names: Catrina, Nicole. I wanted that. Weird. I feel like Barbara is old-fashioned. And yet, even as I say all this, I’m getting more and more into my name. Isn't that bizarre??? It’s a push and pull…