The hotel clock reads 7:05AM central time. The dull spring Chicago light starts to fill our interior facing room. My body aches from yesterday’s flight and the Caipirinha. Only 9 hours left in the Second City. I rose from bed, body heavy like concrete. Molly and I have arrived with two missions to undertake, first, seeing my artwork displayed in its premier Midwest gallery show. The second, to make it to Knee Deep Vintage by the time their archive sale begins at 8AM. Coffeeless we proceed down the isolated streets of the Pilsen neighborhood. We aren’t even the first patrons inside to be greeted by Carlos, Trent and their shop dog. The archive sale is in the basement, everything is 50% off the tag price and anything unlabelled is open for negotiation. Time and reality stop as we enter the basement (in fact we miss our crime tour later that morning and each lose $10 dollars rescheduling) and we stretch like we are about to go for a solid run. I pick the left side of the room, Molly picks the right and we begin to sift through every item until we meet in the middle. The racks are filled with band t-shirts from the 70s, crinoline dresses from the 50s, and little black dresses from every era. Even if I think a piece won’t fit me I still add it to the pile, defending it like a dragon guarding its gold only until the moment I’m ready to part with it. I’m even pulling options for Molly to either power clash or compliment her red hair. After about 35 minutes in the closed universe of thrift, I found her. Emerald green & velvet before me, chest laden with pearls, is the dress I survived on four and a half-hours of sleep to find. The Gunne Sax by Jessica McClintock has no price tag on it, and is the only one from the brand I’ve come across in my size or any other. Molly has long gone upstairs to scope out the ground floor. Mission complete, I grab the pile that dwarfs my 4’11” frame and go to join her. Upstairs Carlos has fitted her with Roberto Cavalli tiger print jeans; he takes one look at me and goes back to the aisles to find pieces he’s certain will fit me also. Safe to say after decades in the business every piece he chooses for me does fit. When lastly it comes time to try on the dress of my dreams my face runs white to Molly’s touch tugging on the zipper. Destiny in limbo Carlos strides over and slips the zipper to the top with a tailor’s ease. If I could’ve I would’ve worn it the rest of the day, but floor length velvet would have been sweltering even with the Lake Michigan breeze. At the counter, Carlos is feeling generous, “How about $40 bucks?” I am immediately sold knowing back home in Boston or online the same dress could easily run me $150 or more. I’ve only been able to wear the dress one other time but when I walk through the streets of Western Mass I feel like a character ripped from an Edith Wharton novel. Chicago is always a good idea and you never know all the glories await in the basement.
-Alejandra Spruill
Aunt Agnes sat in a wooden oval frame with a pane that bubbled out, similar to a boat porthole. In grandma’s kitchen nook, her hands were permanently folded together and she looked the very character of a responsible child of fourteen. Perhaps she did have an unusual grey shade to her round cheeks, but that could be excused by the age of the photo and not her coquettish looks. Yes, she followed the rules and did the work that needed to be done.
Except for the fact that on the day she had the picture taken, she had left school early and- instead of heading straight to the curtain factory- she went to a visiting photographer.
Aunt Agnes sitting in a matte photo dated 75 years, and her lips were turned up slightly, as if she was a little proud of herself.
From the curtain factory, she had taken a few extra panels. No one would notice. After all, they were scrap and much too thinly cut to be relevant as window frill or, heaven forbid, drapes.
Panels of fabric sported a gilded diamond motif over the beige base color and were fairly stiff. Still, Aunt Agnes steamed them over the kitchen kettle, careful not to burn loose threads. Then she pulled the needle though, creating an even stitch. The factory housed hundreds of Singer sewing machines, all lined up. Pumping the iron peddle below the structure would push the needle and thread through fabric with ease.
At her home, Aunt Agnes had a sewing kit. Which worked just as fine, thank you, and didn’t prick her fingers at all.
Fixing the hem to fall above the knee and carving an A-line shape to accent her waist, she tried on the garment. There was a mirror in the family room that hung low enough for her to see the general shape once she stood on her toes. Pinching the back seem together that had yet to be sewn, it looked well enough on her, with a high neckline that didn’t cut into her throat and a flare in the sleeves to broaden her shoulders. Proper enough to wear for winter errands. Although she doubted she would be wearing it on any dates. A zipper still needed to be added on the back.
Decades later, the dress, still in pristine condition, without a stain or pulled thread hangs in a minuscule Providence closet, passing from a great aunt to grandmother, until resting in the granddaughter’s possession. The last time she fit into the piece of history was when she was 18 years old. Her mother had made her pose for a picture next to the frame of Aunt Agnes and hold a bottle of olive oil from the home Italian village.
It took 7 tries to get the right picture, when Aunt Agnes only needed 1.
-Darien Strassfield
“You can never be overdressed or overeducated”- Oscar Wilde
Some months back I covered Pawtucket’s Antique’s Mall for “Gifting Off the Beaten Path”. Over the years I’ve scored numerous trinkets here and I wanted to share a few. Pictured here are a brushed-metal, tie-bar/cuff-link set from the Foster Company, made during the mid 1950’s. Whether for work or an event, I enjoy wearing a suit; there’s an art to it. And while in a work setting, colors may be limited to blues, blacks and grays, it’s the accessories that make an outfit. A French-cut shirt that requires cuff-links is an added touch of elegance with a certain vintage feel. And if wearing a tie, always wear a clasp, bar or pin to keep it from going rogue in high winds; that’s just proper etiquette.
While on the topic, allow me to point out that despite our Commander In Chief’s “high” fashion sense, no tie should ever dangle below the belt buckle, or rest above it for that matter. The tip should more or less meet the buckle. Beyond that, don’t be afraid to play with color combinations. Remember to include an appropriate pocket square and lapel pin for that added touch of flair.
Also pictured with me are two favorite items that, while newer designs, retain a particular ‘50’s charm. The watch is made by Bulova and inspired by the designs of famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright. The pen is made by Parker and is their Classic, slim model in matte black with gold accents. I only use Parker pens, exclusively. They are amazing in their construction and design. Immediately recognizable by their arrow clip, their quick drying ink is also ideal for us lefties.
Special thanks to Bo’s Billiards in Warwick for the location. This is a RI gem that harkens back to an equally vintage era abundant with pool halls.
Photo: Isaac Laliberte
-Richard laliberte
Steve was raised by a bachelor uncle, born of Greek immigrants. Steve was taking me to meet Uncle George and attend a cousin’s wedding. Traditionally, Greek immigrant families want their sons and daughters to marry Greeks; I was not Greek. But I was in love with Steve. He told me Uncle George was old fashioned, so I decided to dress in vintage clothing. I wore my mother’s sundress from the early sixties. It was grey and white striped, with a gathered, fitted bodice and a full skirt. The straps and tight waist were solid grey, and the border of the skirt was also solid grey. There was a wide, white trim of rick-rack. I painstakingly pressed each point of the trim. And I chose to wear white gloves and heels. It was 1986, but I wanted to make a good impression on the old-fashioned, Greek man, who had changed his life to change Steve’s. As it turns out, Uncle George did not care whether Steve married a Greek or not. He blessed our marriage, which has lasted 38 years.
-Elizabeth Thomakos