Saturday, May 3rd, 2025, I lost my mentor, my advisor, my supplier, my friend.
Joe Leb was the head of Tricots Parisiens. That company I’ve often mentioned, in business for what feels like forever, and that managed to stand the test of time. That man I’ve talked about so many times—who supported me, listened to me, stood by me.
If I don't have a photo of him, I have a drawing.
I first met Joe over the phone. I’m not sure you can really call that a “meeting” but I remember being a little scared of him. I was 25, working as a production manager at Delyla, and usually, when you call the conductor of a partner company, it’s for something serious. He was tough, but I remember someone fair—deeply upset that I was being sent into the line of fire to ask for yet another extension on unpaid invoices, when it wasn’t even my job.
Then came the big chapter—the one that made me president of what is now Montloup.
That’s when I finally met, in person, the voice that used to scare me. He was behind the reception desk, and I was sitting on a wobbly chair, trying to fix the mess left behind by my predecessor, who had gone off to live on an island in the Caribbean (sounds like the start of a TV show, but it’s true).
At the time, I didn’t know much about fabric manufacturing—or the business world, really. I had taken a college course in accounting, but my memories of it were blurry at best, and running a company wasn’t exactly familiar territory.
What I did have was a desire to learn. And I think, that day, I met someone who had a desire to share.
The magnifying glass for fabric analysis
Over many meetings (and coffees), I discovered someone passionate, generous, and deeply kind. I never told him this, but I often referred to him as “Grandpa” when I spoke about him. I later learned that others called him “Uncle Joe”.
More than a supplier, Joe was the one who took me under his wing to help me become the kind of entrepreneur I wanted to be. He was also the one who called just to check in after a medical appointment, or to ask how I was doing. The one who brought me chocolate to get through long workdays.
Joe was patient—he listened to me speak in shaky English without ever showing signs of impatience or condescension. He always answered my questions. And I had a lot of questions.
“I have a question.”
“Only one question?”
A jacquard design from the Tricots Parisiens archives
I can’t really speak for him, but I like to think he enjoyed sharing what he knew. That he liked telling his stories, and that he appreciated having someone in front of him who was truly listening. I do love listening to the stories of the people around me. He also liked when I shared my projects with him—offering his advice and cautionary notes along the way.
He was a character. A key figure in the Canadian textile industry.
When I’d hear others in the field talk about him, I realized just how lucky I was to have him by my side.
He was respected for both his knowhow and know-how.
Through this relationship, I learned how to become the entrepreneur I am today. I learned a great deal about fabric production—but also about life. I learned to keep things in perspective, a lot. Because I believe that when you’ve experienced war at some point in your life, a small hole in a fabric isn’t the end of the world. You’ve seen worse, as they say. And that was invaluable in moments of doubt.
I wrote this text because it helped me to do so—but also to share a piece of advice I believe is the most important in business (and in life):
surround yourself with the right people.
In business development programs, they often talk about finances, human resources (which, let’s face it, tend to dehumanize people), performance indicators, and marketing. But we often forget to talk about the professional support system—and the pivotal role that certain key people can play.
I don’t think I’d be where I am today if I hadn’t crossed paths with him.
I’d probably be somewhere else entirely.
Joe, I hope that wherever you are, you’ve felt the immense gratitude I hold for you.
I believe we truly die only when no one remembers us.
So let me just say:
you’re going to live on for a very long time.
A photo by Morgane Clément-Gagnon
