In memoriam: Gisele

The counsel, "Judge not, lest ye be judged" (Matthew 7, 1-2) never sat well with me. I would amend that to, "Judge, and temper that natural human behaviour with compassion." The Sermon on the Mount, from which this verse was taken, reminds us to practice love and humility. I prefer to call this behaviour discernment or evaluation, because the term judgement is itself judged as a moral weakness, like vanity or gluttony. But is it, really? 

Never have I thought more about this concept, because we have lost our dear Gisele, who rendered judgement more emphatically than anyone I've known, with utter confidence and a conviction that you would benefit from it. (This is a tricky trait for a grown woman. When she issues an unqualified evaluation, she is often called "opinionated", "blunt" or "bossy". Does anyone ever call a man bossy?) 

Amid the moderate, cautious or reserved—all venerated Canadian cultural stereotypes—she was a beacon of forthright, graphic judgement whether concerned with one's wardrobe, art or political views. She would usually preface her judgement with, "If you don't mind me saying...", but always delivered it. 

Furthermore, she expected the recipient to act on this information. She patted my curls to check whether I was using the defining cream she provided. She told her best friend (a single man) how to clean his kitchen; when he did not comply, she visited for the weekend with her own cutting boards and knives, and an arsenal of cleaning products.

I cannot overstate how refreshing this quality was to me, and told her so. She chuckled and said, "Well, some people can't stand it, I'm not for everyone." Her candour was tempered by a ready sense of humour and open-handed generosity toward anyone in need. She had a superb eye and minimalist, refined style.

The word those who eulogized her repeated often was éxigente—demanding. Her former employees said she led them to delivering the best work of their career.  She had a knack for turning difficult persons in her competitive firm into friends; when she moved to our building, she connected residents to one another effortlessly. 

For her daughter, Chloe, whom she raised alone and loved wholeheartedly, she set high standards that both inspired and piqued. There was flexibility, but an assignment or project had to represent Chloe's best effort. A Tiger Mom but a Love Bunny inside, Gisele celebrated successes enthusiastically; she was not impossible to please.

The adventure

Paris, 1971

This is Gisele in Paris at age nineteen; you can see the Notre Dame over her shoulder. At that time, she worked as a Girl Friday in the office of a small Montréal factory, content to be making a living and settled into her tiny first apartment, rent, $47/month. She had grown up in a large family, in her words, "poor, but loved" and was enjoying the first flush of freedom. 

The owner of the firm and his wife took an interest in her, and decided she would benefit from a wider view of the world. They offered her a fully-paid ten-day trip to Paris, with extras: a charming Left Bank hotel and money for all the good restaurants, museums and performances she could fit in.

The trip was life-changing; the bright girl had seen possibilities. She went to university on student loans and bursaries, started a degree in art history, discovered she had a head for numbers, and switched to business. She was immediately hired by a global consulting firm, rose to the top, and never forgot the couple who opened her world. A serial monogamist but never a wife, Gisele often said she would have been a nun, if only men were allowed in the convent.

 She had been planning a trip to Tokyo to tour the locations of her favourite film, Wim Wenders' "Perfect Days",  when she died suddenly, of an embolism.

This morning I found an old voice mail: "If you have time, would you please call me?" 

I cannot call, but hear her in my head: "Be sure that paint you bought matches, the store can make a mistake. Test it on a tiny area first." 

All of us, I believe, are suspended in some essential psychic substance, our persona preserved—some in honey, some in stardust, some in tears. Gisele's was the water of Kamouraska's tidal river, the salty and pungent St. Lawrence.

She was one of the most vivid, original women I have ever known. My dad would have called her a dame. Where are the dames now? 

She liked Italian spirts; a few ounces remain in the bottle of grappa she enjoyed at our table, and we'll finish it tonight. We can replace the bottle, but not Gisele.