While at the BFI Southbank screening of “Downton Abbey,” it was clear that renewed interest in vintage style had our audience enthralled. Our attendees were taken with the crisp tailoring and refined silhouettes of the early 20th century that had recently been experienced in the form of our show’s latest episodes. We were encouraged to see dressing that could—in seemingly effortless fashion—balance the historic and the modern.
And this—if you’re a fan of the show or even just of elegant dressing—seems an excellent aim. Strolling through Covent Garden last weekend, I chanced upon a petite boutique hidden away on a side street that specialised in curated collections of vintage clothing. The store had a line of 1960s blazers, a range of skirts from the 1970s, and a selection of accessories that seemed to whisper, “This belonged to a British icon.” One piece in particular caught my eye: a tailored wool coat that had once been worn by a character in “The Queen,” a film that was, and still is, a study in how to render “regal” and “elegant” into terms that resonate across generations.
Seeing items like these in person makes one appreciate the staying power of “style.”
There is authenticity associated with vintage fashion that appeals to many. One can feel truly satisfied when discovering a rarity that has survived the test of time and, apparently, a fickle fashion industry to arrive at the present day. The trousers pictured here (for the record, I have never owned them) are from the 1980s and were likely cut to fit a guy whose proportions could be identified in all kinds of ’80s works—from Ronald Reagan to R.E.M.
This piece can add to the appearance of any ensemble because of the serious quality of the fabric, the truly distressed nature of its condition, and an overall unfussy kind of straight-leg silhouette that can exist in tandem with many different kinds of tops. At a recent pop-up event in Soho, I noted how even the simplest “fashion moments” were being celebrated—thanks to selfies and Instagram stories—by both influencers and everyday fashion enthusiasts. Since the event was a social media-driven one, I found it apropos to take direct notes on what was happening.
From my perch, I witnessed a pop-up event in which close to 40 influencers and fashion fans were fashioning—they were literally, and in some cases quite ironically, re-fashioning—their clothes while interacting with the brand inside an apartment-like setting in Soho. Integrating vintage pieces into my wardrobe is a creative challenge I consider delightful. Each of my vintage finds—whether it’s a delicately embroidered scarf from the 1940s or a pair of character-filled leather boots—carries its own narrative.
The trick to making my wardrobe look like a natural whole rather than a forced mash-up of different decades lies in balancing modern cuts and current trends with historical elements. I remember the day I paired a 1960s A-line skirt with a top whose extremely basic silhouette made it seem sort of structured and kind of minimalist. If you had been with me, you might have had a moment of surprise and concern to see the skirt repping for the ’60s while the top seemed so contemporary.
But this outfit story was totally natural. Don’t let anyone tell you that natural is not a valid mode of expression. The last few months have seen the fashion world become quite the chatterbox about sustainability, and the conversation couldn’t be better timed.
The vintage choice has never been more popular, but our infatuation with the past—as today’s Instagram accounts and tomorrow’s Antiques Roadshow will tell you—is hardly a new concept. Do you know what was particularly not in vogue, though, when Instagram was serving up the dawn of the #SustainableFashion era? Wearing secondhand clothes.
Stealing looks from the ’60s or ’70s at your local Goodwill wasn’t quite as enshrined in sustainability as it is today. The clear advantage of vintage is its practicality. In this world of throwaway couture, the pieces that predate our era are markedly more durable and better constructed than anything produced en masse today.
I’ve got trousers that were cut over thirty years ago, and despite their age, they don’t look it. The laughable thing is that I paid probably no more than half of what you’d pay for that kind of sturdy, well-made, hand-tailored, and fitted ensemble today. Yet the garment has held up through more than three decades, with both its structure and my ass intact (as far as I can tell).
In addition, vintage confers a state of individuality that is increasingly threatened in our digital epoch. What with the hegemony of fast fashion, many ensembles begin to resemble one another with alarming similarity. This is not at all the case with vintage ensembles.
By their very nature, vintage pieces cannot help but look and feel unique, especially when the smooth, enervating surfaces of modern, mass-produced clothing are taken into account. Indeed, this uniqueness and the secret stylishness which accompanies it is what makes vintage pieces (and, by extension, vintage-inspired ensembles) so much fun to wear. You really can’t be a wallflower or part of the drab-in, drab-out kind of scene when you wear something that was once a hit, or even a miss, in past decades.
Behold the dress that was famous, or infamous, in the 1960s, the one that Elvira wore on the set of the TV show “Monsterpiece Theater.” And behold the highly secretive, even occult, style with which its wearer imbues this past by calling it present. Integrating these elements is about achieving balance. It’s necessary to pit the ancient against the recent in a manner that feels deliberate and well thought out.
An example is the juxtaposition of a leather jacket against a silk blouse, styled in such a way that the two looks are literally stitched together, with a modern silhouette serving as the grounding for this vintage-inspired fantasy. The leather jacket has history and a texture that speaks against the contemporary lines of the blouse. Neither piece is rendered subordinate to the other.
When one thinks about it, this ensemble serves as a layering of styles, with a look that could, in some ways, be a fantastic form of fantasy. The essence of injecting modern styles into vintage finds is the endless possibilities it offers. Every trip is a chance to mix, to remold your appearance by joining together items from different times in ways that surprise.
There’s an aspect of creative freedom in knowing that the old rules of matching and coordination are for the most part, if not entirely, inoperative. It’s more about trusting your gut and understanding that, more often than not, decent outfits are really just a handful of good-looking moments held together by an invisible thread and an even less visible adherence to the kinds of principles that have run the course of 20th-century fashion jargon. In the end, what makes vintage appealing is its ability to link together different times and places.
It connects us to our forebears, encourages us to live richly in the now, and fuels what we hope will be future trends. As I make my way down this style avenue, I find that each vintage piece offers not just an increase in the overall cool factor of my wardrobe but also a much greater respect for the way good design is, by itself, a kind of time travel. I might not always know the backstory of every piece I pull on, but I do know that it was made with love and good sense, most likely in a less hurried world dominated by better sewing machines.
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