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.

I lived in New York once, and I have spent plenty of time there over the years, growing up in Boston and visiting my dad in Connecticut. Certainly I enjoyed it then–and appreciate it still–but it’s unlikely I’d ever move back. It just doesn’t hold any special appeal for me anymore.

Still, in September (in particular, this September), I can’t help but feel a pang of envy. It’s Fashion Week. The uber-hyped Fashion’s Night Out is tomorrow, taunting me with its promise of killer sales, celebrity sightings and champagne. Oh, to clink classes with Simon Doonan at Barneys, after facials from Olivia Chantecaille and an autograph signing from Jack and Lazaro. I need to unsubscribe from these tortuous NY-centric listservs. STAT.

But what had me most angsty this September was waiting a little bit longer than our east coast friends to see The September Issue. When I first caught the early buzz–it had to be a year ago–I was riveted, and when the good reviews poured in, I was mildly perturbed that I couldn’t see it opening day. Alas, the fashion gods (aka a friend at Barneys) kindly put me out of my misery with a ticket to the Chicago screening.

This is not a review. There have already been countless write-ups, and I won’t add anything that hasn’t already been said. But I will say this: Creative Director Grace Coddington is truly awe-inspiring. She is, in my opinion, the true visionary behind the Vogue operation. The unsung hero. Whereas Ms. Wintour clearly supplies the business sense, the savvy, the wheeling-and-dealing, string-pulling and overruling, Grace is unbridled, wildly creative and, as a result, often reeled in.

Naturally, Anna is the star of this movie. I enjoyed seeing how she has wielded her influence over the years–like ushering in the practice of putting celebrities on the cover (a smart business move, sure, but one that has alienated a good portion of Vogue’s readership). But the portrait of Anna wasn’t particularly surprising for readers of the magazine and followers of the Vogue culture. We already knew that she was a tough cookie, a sharp editor and an exacting boss. We also can assume that she’s human, too. (And if we didn’t already, producer R.J. Cutler did a nice job of exposing her more vulnerable moments.)

The footage of flame-haired Grace, on the other hand, revealed something new–the elusive woman behind the woman. Grace is an artist, someone driven by pure inspiration. The passion is behind her eyes; it emanates in every scene. And her raison d’etre seems more holistic: It’s about aesthetic beauty, not necessarily fashion, trends, labels and designers. When Anna is meeting with designers, photographers and other heavy hitters, Grace is behind the scenes–culling items for the fashion spreads, poring through books for inspiration, dressing the models and scouting locations. And she is beyond passionate, noticeably upset when several pages of her brilliant 1920s spread are killed. I felt for her not only because her artistic direction was pure genius– but because she poured so much heart and soul into it. Genius (and heart and soul), as we know, can’t always trump budget concerns.

I have just one critique of the film: More Andre Leon Talley in full Louis Vuitton regalia, please! But the film’s most enjoyable moments were the ones that focused on Grace:  her rise from model to editor, her hands-on, backstage moments and her candid confessions. I came out of the movie reassured that there’s a place for creative, not-so-practical people. Suffice it to say, I want to be Grace Coddington when I grow up.

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.

When I entertain fantasies of dream jobs—jobs that allow for and encourage rampant creativity, exotic travel and stylish company—I’m reminded of an old Vogue article about British designer Alice Temperley. I know the job of a designer is more than a constant, copious supply of glamour. (The frenzied, last-minute changes preceding a show would be enough to disable me completely.) Still, this article made a compelling case for the lifestyle.

I’ve always enjoyed Temperley London. The femininity, fit and fabrics of Alice’s pieces represent the perfect hybrid of form and function. That is to say, the clothing seems truly wearable, whatever that means. And maybe this is why Temperley sometimes falls off the fashion radar in favor of more outrageous, hip or stalwart luxury brands. Plum Sykes put it well (incidentally, in a different Vogue article about Alice):

“There’s a certain kind of girl who exists outside regular fashion. She’s not running off to Prada to buy the latest seasonal thing. She’s not buying an It bag from Dior, nor is she interested in Balenciaga’s hot skinny Bowie trousers. She’s the Alice Temperley girl. She’s a style nomad who drifts from Alice Temperley in New York to Alice Temperley in Los Angeles to Alice Temperley in London. It’s planet Alice.”

I like to think of myself as said “certain type of girl”–imagining, of course, that I had the financial means to be her. The original magazine spread sold me on this same image–the casually cool, breezy and almost low-maintenance image behind the wares. The photos featured the designer with friends and family in the hills of Tuscany. They were saturating fabrics in bright pinks and purples with dyes made fresh from fruits and vegetables. I think there was a clothesline of vibrant, airy fabric (future caftans?) billowing in the wind. And, of course, there was an alfresco supper, lots of wine and a low, warm summer afternoon sun.

In short, it was dreamy and aspirational–and yet easy. I always remember it when I see her frocks and think, “Yes, that nails the part ingenue, part sophisticate role. It captures the fashion-forward, yet not too avant garde, sexy, but not slutty, pretty, but not precious look perfectly.” (Ok, so it wouldn’t spring to mind exactly like that, but you understand.)

And so I adore Alice–the woman, the clothes, the projected lifestyle. Who wouldn’t want to make vegetable dyes under the Tuscan sun and then jet back to London for a cosmopolitan, rock-and-roll life in fashion? Until she and I can be best friends, I’ll keep saving for a Temperley dress.