photos by Christine Sisson

I’ll cop to reading (and yes, sometimes wistfully believing) the occasional horoscope here and there. It’s the first page I look at in Elle, and when my local Starbucks posts the paper’s horoscope page by the drink pick-up area, you bet I’m scanning it while I wait for my vanilla latte.

My latest astrological discovery—Sextrology—has even quieted the lingering inner skeptic. (Seriously, check it out.) And I think there is some truth to it all. After all, I’m a Capricorn with a long history of making instant connections with fellow Earth signs.

But even if you think astrology exists solely for the purpose of cheesy pick-up lines, you have to admit there’s something fun about it. These vintage zodiac pieces found during my scouting adventures are pure kitsch. A bracelet with the traits of a Gemini spelled out? Self-aware style at its best. Another one with retro zodiac charms? Awesome.  My personal favorite is this charm holder pendant with two goats. But that one is no longer for sale. This proud Cap needs a signature talisman.

At some point after college, I started casually collecting old magazines. It started with a trip to Magazine Memories in Morton Grove, IL–a warehouse and scouter’s delight–where I found a pristine vintage issue of The New Yorker from the week of July 4, 1954, when my mother was born. It made the perfect, albeit unconventional, 50th birthday present.

When my then-boyfriend/now husband moved just west of Wrigleyville in 2003 (what we then called St. Ben’s, a neighborhood moniker I’ve yet to hear again since then), he was fortunate to live down the street from Yesterday. The old, out-of-place shack overflows with ephemera and seems to sag with the weight of its own stock. But unlike Magazine Memories, it still remains. What a joy to thumb through the inky, torn pages of old newspapers and magazines. And oh, that smell of attic and old books.

It’s where we found our original vintage Lolita poster, among numerous other treasures. Over the years, I amassed a healthy stack of Vogues and Bazaars from the 50s and 60s. I’m usually struck first by the covers, many by Avedon and Penn and other legends. It’s amazing how progressive many of them seem now, in our era of screaming cover lines and bland celebrities with blank looks. (If only magazines today could rely on great cover designs rather than a celebrity’s mass appeal to sell issues.)

But the issue contents are usually equally compelling: articles about women of a “certain age” (i.e. 30. Yes, 30) and the girdles and special skin creams they need in their post-baby years (huge collective sigh on behalf of all modern women). And there are lovely editorial spreads with actual white space, prime, pristine magazine real estate not squandered with advertisements. The image above was from a decadent spread on all things wool. I started photographing some of these magazine images so I could share my favorites. With its beautiful coloring and composition, and its ability to suggest a story, this is one such favorite.

The resurgence of 80s fashion makes me think we may be just as apt to regret 2010’s adaptations as we did bulging shoulder pads, stirrup pants and socks with pumps a la Borderline. Unless you’re an LES hipster, proceed with caution.

But I enjoy a little flamboyant 80s fashion in small, flashy doses and these recent finds fit the bill. I have yet to wear the sparkly round earrings—but I’m working up the courage. The bangle I was obsessed with, and when it sold, I was a bit crushed.  And the geometric earrings? How hot would those look with your hair in a high, slicked-back Robert-Palmer-girl bun?

It all takes me back a bit to childhood—waiting for my mom at the tanning salon or aerobics class (take your pick), with Pet Shop Boys on the speakers and a Barbie coloring book on my lap. *Sigh*

Just another eye-catching highlight from my stack o’ vintage magazines; the era’s illustrated ads–with bright watercolor strokes and graphics–really lend themselves to the ‘fantasy’ element of fashion.

Colifichet. Definition: 1) French for bauble, trinket; 2) a curated collection of special vintage finds

Well, I finally did it–amassed enough vintage jewelry to justify doing something with it, other than layering it of course.

As I continue to scout for interesting finds, I’ll be selling them at my online store via Market Publique. Hope you’ll check it out!

We came, we ate, we conquered. And we shopped.

Our week-long sojourn on the east coast was ultimate in multi-tasking travel. We polished off a few bottles of wine with family, saw New York friends in various life stages (new places, new relationships–and babies!) and visited a new city, Montreal. Steak frites, ice wine, pan-fried ‘shore lunch’ fish from Joe Beef, copious cheeses from the Atwater Market, Canadian beers with names like Enigma that were thick, malty and sweet: Well, the food was certainly something to write home about.

As was the antiquing. We were charmed by the shops along Rue Notre Dame, right near our little rented flat. And of course we homed in on the gold-mine flea market. Every city has one, I like to believe, and it’s usually not the one listed on the city’s tourism website. I don’t remember how we found this little gem of a warehouse in the Hatian neighborhood, though I do remember sitting in horrendous traffic to get there. (But that’s another story that involves our arriving too late and needing to return to the market on the following day.) When we finally made it, one look at the stacks of records, array of taxidermy and assorted oddities (a guidebook to Beverly Hills, 90210–yes, please) assured me it was worth the hassle. Amid the dusty booths selling 1980s appliances (umm… Speak N’ Spell?!), pins, dolls and moth-ball-smelling clothes was this vendor with a rusty stockpile vintage ring molds.

Pure captivation. I still don’t really understand how these molds were used to fashion rings, but I loved their rough-hewn quality. The bare settings–the prongs sans gemstones–had a certain gritty style I’m not sure I would have sought out normally. But once I dug through this pile of funky, modernist castings, I thought, ‘who needs gems?’ Heck, who needs smooth metal? (The few I bought had little bits and pieces of metal sticking out everywhere. Wearing at least four on one hand, I defy anyone to mess with me. It could be painful.)

I only bought three. (I should have taken the whole lot.) But they’ve become a fixture on my ring rotation.

It’s really quite tragic that I don’t have any Halloween parties invites floating my way. As cliche a cultural reference (so 2008?) as it may be, Mad Men would make my annual costume search so much more streamlined. I already have Betty in the bag.

Vintage cinched-waisted dresses in pastel, petit four colors (courtesy of my step-grandmother, who wore them on the Queen Mary traveling from New York to London). CHECK

Trusty silver dancing shoes that are very Penny in “Dirty Dancing”; time period is unknown, but I’d estimate 1960s. CHECK

Delicate Whiting & Davis purse (pictured above) appropriate only for my wedding (check) and Halloween. CHECK

Suitable Don Draper to accompany me. A little pomade, a shave and a slim tie, and my husband could definitely be transformed. CHECK

Gobs of retro costume jewelry (perhaps more Joan than Betty?), from brooches to clip-on earrings, and a classic string of pearls.  CHECK

Props! I’d happily tote one of my old fashion magazines for a touch of realism. And, had I been really clever and decided to host a party myself, I’d be drinking exclusively from these champagne coups. Some are crystal clear, demure; the rest of the set are splashy, etched with gold. All were kindly passed down to be my grandmother and are among my most cherished objects. Every once in a while, I’ll sip from one of these. They are incredibly impractical, holding a scant couple ounces of fluid, but their dainty elegance more than compensates.

I broke them out once for a legendary “old-fashioned” cocktail party. (That evening I also learned that serving only hard alcohol–not a beer or bottle of wine in sight–makes for an interesting party. Not recommended for those who don’t enjoy picking people off the floor. That said, the Moscow Mules were fab!)

And sneaking glimpses of similar champagne coupes (or cups, if you prefer) on MM makes me smile a bit, dork that I am, even if this salacious mythology was proven untrue.

So this Halloween, I may be all dressed up with no place to go. But if I’m at home drinking a vodka gimlet out of one of these, that will be just fine by me.

Last month, The Wizard of Oz turned 70. And last week, multiplexes and small theaters across the country showed a digitally remastered version of the classic film. Two nights ago, I caught it on TV and marveled once again–after so, so many viewings–at the brilliance of it. Technicolor and great casting notwithstanding, it’s the story that really shines. Baum was a genius.

Given my affinity for found objects, old books and historic ephemera (mostly of the stylish and/or campy variety), I’m ridiculously lucky to have inherited a large set of first-edition Oz books. Most of the books in my personal collection were written by Ruth Plumly Thompson (who, if Wikipedia is to be believed, actually penned more Oz books than Baum) and published in the 20s and 30s. They are well preserved, and they smell delicious: decades and decades of different houses, different readers–that old-attic scent that makes me feel safe, nostalgic and curious all at once.

These books, each a different, dusky color, were first read to my grandfather. His name, in charming kid penmanship, is inscribed inside each cover. My grandfather read the series to my father, when he was a boy. And my father, following tradition, read them to my sister and me. I have fond memories of summer evenings at my grandparents’ lake house, curled up on the couch with my dad and my sister. I sported a pink nightgown and hair tangled from lake water. I dozed off easily (I still do) when comfortable and cozy and tired from the day. But I could always stay up for Oz.

To the unacquainted, these stories go way beyond Dorothy and her adventures. Each tale was completely different, each one woven with new characters, plots and escapades. How can I forget Bungle, the glass cat, so proud of her pink brains? Or Button Bright–the boy who was anything but? (His reply to every question was “Don’t Know!” My dad created a hilariously exaggerated reading of this, and my sister and I howled every time he did it.)

These characters were memorable, the stories rich. And the illustrations were pure art. (Scroll down to see one one that harkens to Mucha.) We spent years with these books. But here’s the sad thing about growing up: One day we just stopped. We never made it to the end of the Oz series. As my dad tells us now, my sister and I simply lost interest, got too old. We wanted to play Nintendo, not listen to some story for babies.

It pains me to think of this now.

I’m fighting the urge to re-read the books now, even though it’s tempting. I’m waiting for the day when I can relive them with my own kids, much like my grandfather and dad did. I just hope they can love and appreciate them like I do. (Because it might break my heart otherwise.)

Several weeks ago, I photographed a series of ads and editorial spreads from my collection of vintage Vogue and Bazaar magazines. What I love about this shot: the grainy ink, the true-red lipstick and the Mad Men-era fashion model posed poolside –  the perfect summer muse.  That day, she inspired me to pull my crumpled straw hat from its hiding place. I even went to a street festival and drank overpriced beer under a blazing hot sun.

What kills me looking at this photo now: Today it is fall. It is crisp like a Braeburn, and it is unmistakable. That’s not to say that I’m not looking forward to this change. It’s my favorite season, and I’m squirming to break out my trench, cozy cardigans and the vintage gray boots that I bought for $4 at an estate sale last October. But there’s still that tinge, that trace of back-to-school blues that creeps up this time of year. Only now, there’s no excitement about new Trapper Keepers and roller ball pens. I wish there were. (And trench coats can’t fill the void.)

This past weekend, we hosted 14 friends at our cabin in Wisconsin. One final summer fling. It was, without a doubt, complete reversion to college–like the Big Chill, minus a funeral and several years, plus flip cup, a fire pit, Jens Lenkman and an endless loop of Eagles songs instead of Motown. Maybe St. Elmo’s Fire is more apt. Except that those characters were all vapid and selfish, right? Hmm.

And though somewhat regressive behavior is our group’s normal routine–it all felt more poignant this time, like one of those sappy movies about clinging to the past: 100 terrible cliches wrapped in one weekend. Fact: The once-endless stretch of time called our 20s, the era of irresponsibility and tequila passed around a circle, is dwindling.

(And now I pause to reflect on how I got from vintage fashion spreads to a monologue on getting older)

When the last of our friends drove away, the goodbye felt more permanent. We’ll be back to the cottage next summer, and they’ll join. And there will be sloppy games of Taboo and the same tired inside jokes. But will it always be the same? Of course not; it can’t be. It was a simple revelation, and one I had had before. But I do believe the brisk weather that morning provided the cinematic backdrop for this melodrama: We’re getting older….seasons change….and so forth.

I’m happy to kiss summer goodbye. It was fine enough, but like every summer (and every New Year’s, for that matter), it couldn’t live up to the hype:  I didn’t enjoy any beach days, alfresco movies or those summery things I set out to do every year. Life intervened, I suppose. And our perfect summer getaway to the cottage? It was cold and fall-like — though no less quaint.

This blog is about style, not life — though it’s tempting to dip in to the personal. Still, I’d like to bring it back to Susie Sunbather here. She is, after all, my summer muse. Maybe she’s in Palm Springs, on the patio of a sprawling ranch house. She sips a gin gimlet between takes, draped in a Pucci cover-up. Avedon gives directions. The sun shines bright. And the day, and the summer, stretches on forever.

I can’t decide which is campier: this book, which needs no introduction, or my more rare find, “Hollywood All About Motion Pictures” (published in 1940, produced for “Basic English Prague,” and soon to be covered on this blog). The truth is, I have to give credit to my husband for finding both.

I haven’t dug up too much on the elusive Samuel Paynter Wilson, but I do know that he penned another classic, “Chicago by Gaslight.” Both seem to document the perils, societal ills and sin of city life in the early 20th century (this was published in 1915). The title paints such a picture, doesn’t it? A city with explosive growth, creaking under the pressure only to spit the grit, grime and foul characters onto the streets.

And the passages are even better:

[On Chicago]

“It is unhappily true that the devil’s work is done here upon a large scale..”

[On Prostitution]

“Woe to the man who follows after one of these creatures. The next step is to some of the low dives which still occupy too many of the so-called hotels in the business district..”

(From this proclamation, Wilson launches into a 100-page diatribe about the dangers of the so-called “White Slave Traffic” and how parents can protect their girls from being captured by the city’s clutches; most of this is covered in a chapter entitled “Why Girls Go Astray.”)

[On Bars]

“The curse of Chicago is the vile, repugnant saloon. No one can realize the picture of its rottenness all at once; everything is deceptive about it, and it takes time to grasp the magnitude of this hydra-headed monster.”

[On Drinking]

“The American woman of the fashionable set lives in a whirl of unhealthful stress…she sleeps too little and keeps her nerves constantly on the Qui Vive. She tipples and drugs, she is often a degenerate..”

(Sounds a lot like one of my favorite cinema characters–Ginny, Bud’s wild sister from “Splendor in the Grass”–and, um, spoiled L.A. socialites and their ilk.)

To be fair, Wilson is able to muster some hearty praise for the City of Broad Shoulders. His description of bustling State Street is divine. And his passion for Chicago’s religious institutions and “good” theaters is clearly felt. But then, after all that optimism, he concludes with a sad chapter called “Tramps’ Paradise.” Can’t win ‘em all over, I suppose.