ID Vintage, Seoul, and the Selves We Wear
Written by Mia von Vacano
Collage courtesy of Mia von Vacano
Hapjeong in the late afternoon light. It is summer, and my first week in Seoul. Still a bit jetlagged and a little lost, I wander through the streets. I am looking for something; a shop that Lucie, a girl from the year above me, recommended to me. There it is. I stand in front of a pink sign that reads ID Vintage. It points to a staircase, inviting me to come inside. I feel like Alice following the rabbit as I descend the staircase; PinkPantheress’“ Boy's a liar Pt. 2” with Ice Spice sets the tone. I step in and enter the shop. I see silk blouses, velour jackets, Vivienne Westwood bags, and every vintage piece I could dream of. A group of girls are laughing, as if they already know the secret to being cool. I am overcome with a strange feeling, a mixture of admiration and envy. Maybe it’s love.
I notice two girls behind the counter. Both drop-dead gorgeous, and buzzing a kind of energy that I soak up. I’m talking short, turquoise fingernails, dramatic blush, Marc Jacobs ballerinas, and peach-colored jackets. I am immediately obsessed. Suddenly my jeans feel too stiff and my white top too simple. What do they think of me? Is my fit boring? But they smile at me and ask:“ Is it your first time in Seoul?” I nod. Instantly, I want to be friends with them. I tell them that my friend Lucie told me about this store. Lucie, the prettiest girl back home, studied in Seoul last year and is effortlessly cool. The girls nod knowingly as if they understand exactly what kind of person Lucie must be.
I turn to the clothes and move through the racks. I feel the silk, the velour, the rough touch of vintage denim. I admire the prints, the old Juicy Couture labels, and the vibrant colors. Every item begs me to be tried on. Each one promises a version of myself, someone I could be. I keep looking, hoping that somewhere between it all I will find myself. Then I see it. Between tank tops and nightwear hangs a vintage lace dress in different shades of blue, shorter in the front and longer in the back. Excited, I run to the changing room to try it on. I wear it over my baggy pants and blue bra. I look in the mirror. For a moment, I look like who I want to be: confident, cool, just the right amount of whimsical. I step outside to admire the dress in a better light. The girls behind the counter scream,“ You’re killing it, girl!” and suddenly I feel like I belong here. I belong to the ID Vintage girls. I feel good between the capri pants and the Anna Sui bags. It’s strange how fashion can be both armor and an invitation, a way to say I know who I am, even when I don’t.
Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to this store. In this city, clothes seem to speak a shared language with no need for translation. Seoul has its own rhythm of cool, different from anywhere I have been before. It is more curated and more intentional. The cool girls next door, the ones fluent in fashion, pop culture, film, and literature, move in a way that shows they don’t take life too seriously, yet they recognize the depth in everything worth noticing. Sometimes I wonder how this aesthetic travels. Lucie in Lisbon, me in Seoul. Both of us scrolling through the same Instagram accounts and saving the same posts as if we are chasing something special. Coolness moves faster than people do. It is carried by girls who recognize each other. Maybe I’m not drawn to the clothes at all. Maybe I’m drawn to the network of girls who create worlds out of them. I see a girl and think,“ I love her style”, but what I really want is to know how she feels in her clothing, in her life, and in that exact moment. Maybe wanting to be her is just another way of wanting to be close to her.
“I see a girl and think, ‘I love her style’, but what I really want is to know how she feels in her clothing, in her life, and in that exact moment. Maybe wanting to be her is just another way of wanting to be close to her.”
I go to the counter and buy the shades-of-blue lace dress. The girls carefully fold it and put it into a pink paper bag. They hand it to me. My stomach flutters. A feeling of excitement rushes through me as I say goodbye, knowing that I will come back. Maybe next week. Maybe tomorrow. I climb the stairs back up to the street. It is a beautiful late afternoon. I catch my reflection in a window and smile. Maybe we collect clothes the way we collect possible selves, hanging in our closets, waiting for us to step into them. I know she won’t stay forever, but today she feels real.
