The Quest for the Perfect Vintage Dress

In just over a month my only sibling was getting married in Ireland and I had no dress. Perhaps as a result of the dull maroon uniform my Irish secondary school required, clothes have long been an essential part of my personal expression. On a kindergarten teacher’s salary, that’s often meant scouring vintage and thrift shops. But for my brother’s wedding I’d expanded the search to Seaplane, a tiny boutique on NW 23rd Avenue selling upcycled, edgy, and exquisitely feminine clothing. This was 2008.

Local designers Holly Stalder and Kate Towers founded Seaplane at the turn of the millennium, hosting DIY fashion shows and selling their own reassembled garments in its original storefront across the river. Writers of the early aughts painted them as pioneers of Portland’s industrious Y2K fashion scene. Though their designs still hung on its racks that summer, Stalder and Towers had sold the boutique earlier that year, which proved an omen of a dissolving scene (the shop has since closed). I knew none of this at the time. To me, Seaplane was simply a great shop full of clothes I couldn’t afford.

In its fitting room, I slipped in and out of repurposed baby doll dresses with intricate handiwork and ethereal frocks of gathered tulle, but none was right, and most were way over budget. In the fitting room, I spotted an old photograph (above) taped to the wall. A model with high cheekbones and a cutting gaze wore a satiny dress the color of champagne, something between Courtney Love’s grunge slips and her later Hollywood glamour. It was unconventional, stylish, cool—sleeveless, cut above the knee, and with a surplus of buckles, frayed edges, and visible stitching giving it an edge throughout. Instantly obsessed, I sought information on the piece. But nobody in the store could name its designer.

With the wedding approaching fast and me no closer to finding an outfit, friends asked what I planned to wear. Oddly, I wasn’t panicking. I’d found my dress. I had no interest in looking elsewhere. Instead, I’d visit the picture, dragging my cousin and a couple of friends in to see it. I even emailed a photo home, writing, “This is the one I want.”

“Gorgeous,” Home wrote back, and advised me to find some actual clothes fast.

On one of my return trips to Seaplane, an employee noticed I was drawn specifically to designs by Stalder, the shop’s former co-owner, and shared her website. Browsing her page later, I spotted the dress—a one-off piece sold years prior. I emailed the contact address, and Stalder kindly suggested I come see her. Perhaps she could custom-design something suitable. But my flight was now three weeks away. I didn’t have time for a custom dress, much less the budget.

A few days later, I was still dressless, and my friend Valerie suggested we take an afternoon to expand my search. I agreed, though I wasn’t feeling optimistic. I wouldn’t settle. I compared every dress to the dress. And sure enough, by five o’clock we were exhausted and empty-handed. Which is when we landed at Red Light Clothing Exchange, a hit-and-miss trove of vintage and thrift with a flair for dated gems a few blocks from my apartment.

The dress section was crowded, so I strolled to an empty aisle at the rear. My eyes jumped over flashy pinks and drab browns before landing on a silky champagne fabric. Gently, I tugged on the hanger, drawing out a section of the bodice from the overfull rack. My breath caught in my throat when I noticed a cluster of buckles where a single strap met the bust. I held it up for examination. Frantically, I searched for the label: Holly Stalder. Seaplane. “Valerie!” I called.

Floating toward the changing area, I worried the dress wouldn’t fit. Yet the magic of the moment beat out my doubts. Women oohed as I passed, marveling. “I need to see it on you!” one said. Several waited in the changing area as I squeezed into it and emerged shyly. “It was made for you,” said this line of strangers who’d become my supportive sisterhood. Although it would need some alterations, I believed them.

Nearly two decades on, the magic hasn’t faded. I still wear it on occasion. But most days, the dress hangs in clear view in my closet as a memento. We’re offered alternatives to our visions—sometimes out of kindness, occasionally fear—but finding that dress taught me to listen, first and foremost, to myself. Last October, my beautiful Holly Stalder dress hung in an exhibition at Portland State University documenting the local DIY fashion movement. Unwittingly, my search had been for a piece of this scene, part of Portland’s cultural history that served doubly as a reminder to follow my intuition, to leave room for a little magic and mystery.