Just a few hours shy of leaving the South of France, I decided to trek all the way to a vintage luxury store I had read about online. Shuffling between free WiFi domains and braving the cold, I was propelled by one thing – “drip”.
After dragging my mother across town for what felt like a lifetime, I finally reached the store. At first I didn’t notice it as it merely looked like an abandoned window display cluttered with things (see Hoarders). The tea-stained makeshift sign on the glass door read “Open/Ouvert” in calligraphy. The sombre lighting, however, made it hard to tell if it was indeed open. Upon entering the store, I instantly felt like I was sucked into a vortex. Feeling eons away from the madding crowd and hustle and bustle of the city, I couldn’t tell if I was being transported to the future (because vintage truly is fast fashion’s palate cleanser) or sucked back into the past.
The boutique was organised with the same meticulousness employed by fictional serial-killer-next-door Joe Goldberg. Like his mentor Mooney’s archive of first edition books, one could tell that this treasure trove was curated by a true purveyor of all things elegant.
I greeted who I assume to be the shop owner in the most butchered French accent possible – not quite up to decorum considering the plush setting. Pint-sized and posture perfect, she stood behind her desk. She had an understated elegance to her. Her silver hair was tied into a simple chignon and her glasses were at the ready. You could tell that she’s a stern gatekeeper but does so with so much grace.
I marvelled at her collection, from the bijoux to the shoes – all so intentionally selected and carefully cared for. Each item overwhelmed me with the weight of history.
Who were the women and men who wore these clothes and how far did they walk in these shoes? Were their hallways filled with laughter and cheer or were they drenched in melancholy? Were they the life of every party or more like Nick Carraway (or even Gatsby)? What journey did these clothes embark on before they could arrive here?
Anyway, my eyes landed on a beige Chanel coat. I was taken by how soft it was. The hanger it was suspended from was even softer; velvety and the blackest of black. I imagined wearing the coat to feel like a hug.
A charming woman – an actual patron in this story – entered the store. A relatively “new” blue velvet Gucci Marmont bag on display in the store window had caught her eye. I overheard her inquiring about the authenticity of the bag to which the owner replied (how I remember it anyway), “Fakes are simply forbidden in France.” Firstly, I stan an alliterative Queen. Secondly, the Miranda Priestly tonality to her voice was so on brand. Thirdly, will you be my fairy godmother?
As minutes passed, the awkward silence of browsing started to buzz and the cluttered walls began to cave in. I began to realise that I’m not Cinderella and that the silver-haired woman behind her desk was not about to make my Louis Vuitton Nano Speedy dreams come true. I simply am not the target market.
What I did walk out with was with an even greater appreciation; for time-honoured techniques and artisanal quality. For storytelling and preservation. Although those items have been frozen in time, they have still managed to live on well beyond their years. Beyond the luxury and bravado of it all, indelibility is the true aspiration.
THE BEFITTING ROOM 