Frocks around the clock
Sophia Hesselgren
Ihad imagined the vintage clothing industry to be full of eccentric characters — all spectacularly dressed, smoking furiously (perhaps through ivory cigarette holders), with husky, weary voices and stories about dalliances with minor rock stars in the 1960s. Instead, the vintage clothes business is full of clean-living dedicated professionals.
Perhaps my fantasy stemmed from the association with party frocks: anyone who dabbles in slinky gold lamé or confections of Victorian lace should, I presumed, be wearing them for their own purposes — a little like drug dealers hooked on their own supply. But what vintage clothes dealers are really hooked on is not their own image, but the hunt for treasure.
‘I get up really, really early,’ says Gwyneth Trevor Jones, of Persiflage in Alfie’s Antique Market. ‘Four in the morning isn’t unusual. I start buying in the dark. Often I don’t know the colour of the item I’m buying because you can’t see colours under the sodium lights.’ Good dealers can recognise a lush fabric or an intriguing cut at 100 paces. That’s why vintage is popular with the fashion cognoscenti: there’s a certain quirky talent involved in spotting a decent piece. ‘That’s what it’s all about: sniffing it out. Like a bloodhound,’ says Fiona Stuart, of the so-hip-it-hurts Rellik boutique situated at the bottom of the Trellick Tower.
Just as there are all kinds of places to find a ‘find’ — charity shops, car-boot sales, vintage fashion fairs (there’s one almost every weekend in London if you look) — the definition of vintage varies depending on whom you’re talking to. ‘Everyone is calling themselves a vintage dealer,’ says Sparkle Moore of The Girl Can’t Help It. ‘Vintage has become such a bastardised word. Journalists in particular have used the word way too freely,’ she adds, giving me a look of suspicion.
Bennie Gray, proprietor of Alfie’s and Gray’s Antiques Markets, agrees that the industry is changing. ‘Vintage clothing has become a huge trade internationally, to the point that its image is under some threat. When Topshop starts doing vintage-type clothing it’s rather like Sainsbury’s Homebase doing Victorian doorknockers.’ Why has vintage emerged from the underground in the past few years? Of course, there’s the visibility vintage has gained in the media: it’s on the back of every fashion-savvy model and actress. But the main reason, dealers agree, is originality. Individual style. ‘You’re finding something that is very different,’ says Sally Ead of Vintage Modes. ‘It’s likely to be a one-off, and the quality of the finishings and decoration on a piece are nothing like mass-market clothes.’ For the uninitiated, vintage style can be a hard thing to get right. ‘If you know how to wear it, make it part of your wardrobe; that’s when it’s great,’ says Sparkle Moore. Dedicated vintage fans will often have been rummaging in jumble sales since adolescence, motivated by a lack of cash and a desire not to follow the norm. ‘When I was 14 my mum bought me an electric-blue vest and ra-ra skirt which I wore out to a club, and a girl had on exactly the same outfit,’ says Claire Stansfield of Rellik. It was obviously a scarring experience: ‘Since then I haven’t worn anything new.’ To trawl through the clothes at secondhand shops stocked with unsorted ‘rag bales’ from the States, you need a real eye and the patience of Odysseus’s wife. Discovering a real vintage piece is an increasingly difficult business: no more will you find a Vile Bodiesstyle 1920s beaded cocktail dress in a jumble sale, unless you are extraordinarily lucky. High-end boutiques, however, ‘pre-curate’ for those without the time to do so. There’s Virginia’s in Notting Hill, for example, where silks and satins are laid out with the skill of a set designer — and where time management comes at a price: a slip soft as a rose petal will set you back anything from £600 to £900.
There is a certain expectation that vintage is, well, cheap. ‘I get people coming in who say, “I didn’t know vintage cost that much”, and then go and rummage through Topshop and pay £50 less to get something of lesser quality,’ says Sparkle Moore. But the point is, says Leslie Verinder, ‘You can get something of the highest level of craftsmanship, something unique — a piece of couture, if you’re lucky enough to get something that fits you — for an affordable price.’ Fit certainly is an issue, since our grandmothers seem to have had waists the sizes of our modern-day wrists. Sophie Bulley of Orsini — a charming, airy Aladdin’s cave in Kensington — has a solution, as she does to every vintage clothing dilemma. ‘Apart from our collection of real vintage, we’re going to be making made-to-measure clothes from original fabrics and trimmings and using old patterns,’ she says. She’s not the only one to be taking inspiration from the past: fashion being the cyclical thing it is, designers and stylists are constantly sniffing around vintage shops. ‘John Galliano goes to fairs and buys £20,000 worth of stuff — he’ll base a whole collection around vintage pieces,’ says Sophie. Fiona Stuart says, ‘Designers and stylists are the majority of our customers at the moment.’ Take note, trendspotters: at Rellik, Westwood and 1980s designers such as Bodymap are all the rage.
For those who have the collector’s gene, it’s a slippery slope — succumb to vintage and it won’t be long before you want five or six examples of the best labels of every decade in the last century in your wardrobe. For those who do collect, many of these pieces won’t be worn, but displayed: ‘They’re pieces of art,’ says Leslie Verinder. The V&A certainly concurs: its exhibitions of elaborate 20th-century fashion have taken vintage clothes into the realm of ‘respectability’, says Bennie Gray. ‘Although this means that as a trend, vintage isn’t subversive any more — but there you have it, fashion’s a complex thing.’ In some ways, vintage clothing is the poor relation to the hushed auction-room atmosphere of antiques. After all, when important estates are broken up, paintings, furniture and the odd Ming vase will go to Christie’s, whereas fine Dior and Yves Saint Laurent will end up in local charity shops or the hands of anyone who will take them away. ‘Normally, if you buy a splendid frock, it’s a tremendous extravagance and won’t increase in value,’ says Bennie Gray. ‘But buy a collectable item for £500, wear it out three or four times, and you can justify it as an investment.’ What more excuse do you need? Now, for my sake, hunt down that liquid-silk pleated Fortuny ‘Delphos’ dress, wear it to a laryngitisinducing party — and remember to have a fling with a minor rock star.
Previous page
