The actor and comedian Catherine O’Hara—known best for her work in Schitt’s Creek, Home Alone, and Beetlejuice—died on Friday at 71. Here, her longtime stylist, Andrew Gelwicks, remembers their nearly decade-long relationship.
Our collaboration started, as all great ones do, with a green crystal full-body catsuit—worn backward, at my request. We paired it with nine-inch Vivienne Westwood platform boots, polka-dot lace gloves, and a vintage top hat. She looked in the mirror and giggled—that singular, delightful Catherine O’Hara giggle.
This was the beginning of an almost 10-year-long relationship built on trust, creativity, and friendship.
When photographer Ruven Afanador asked me to fly to Canada for that circus-themed photoshoot, I was just two years into my styling career and desperate to be seen. Like many creatives, I wanted my voice to be heard, to know that what I had to say was valued. Catherine not only saw me, but she also embraced me. She didn’t care that I was new or that I didn’t have any other actors of her caliber on my roster. She cared about connection, trust, joy, delight.
The stylist-client relationship is nuanced. Dressing someone is vulnerable and intimate, yet subject to scrutiny by a global audience. Through fashion, we give our clients the opportunity to explore parts of themselves they may not see or feel comfortable acknowledging. We look at them, we see them, we champion them—we extricate their essence from the marrow of their being and help them share it with the world. Every “yes, you can absolutely pull this off” and “trust me” is a reassurance that we see them for who they are.
I’ve always thought choosing a stylist is like gamers selecting their avatar—something I refer to as “choosing your warrior.” We stylists fight on behalf of our clients and protect them. We can both push and nurture simultaneously, with the goal of bringing beauty, art, and soul to the forefront. Good styling, as I’ve come to learn, has its own heartbeat—an aliveness felt by the person wearing the look and everyone who sees them. I loved being Catherine’s warrior. I loved searching for the one piece that was worthy of her elegance and brilliance. It was both a badge of honor and armor as I found my voice in this noisy industry.
It should come as no surprise that she never cared about what designer she was wearing, the season it was from, or whether anyone had worn it before. She was drawn to what made her smile and laugh, what she would genuinely have fun wearing. Catherine found the glee in a reptilian Coperni topcoat with matching thigh-high boots, as well as a licorice-inspired Oscar de la Renta that wound up her body and unraveled around her; she said, “How fun!” to entering Thom Browne’s alternate universe.
Seeing the global outpouring of love since her passing, it’s clear her authenticity was universally felt. Catherine uplifted us in a world that often tears us down. That, to me, was her greatest talent—even greater than the brilliance of her performances: her unique ability to make us fall in love with her and, by doing so, make us feel less alone.
As much as I cherished being Catherine’s warrior, I only wish I had been able to tell her she was mine. In an industry built on the tenets of new, now, next, she showed unparalleled loyalty and always made it known she was appreciative. In contrast to much of the world we experience today, Catherine personified genuine kindness, warmth, love, humor, and joy. It poured out of her. Wherever she went, she made people feel special and seen. She was a nurturer, a trait reflected in the many beloved characters she played throughout the years.
There will be other brilliant actors, but there will never be another Catherine O’Hara. And I know, years from now, I will forever consider it one of the greatest honors of my life to have had the opportunity to know her.
I am so immensely thankful to you, Catherine, and I will miss you dearly.
