Wearing contributor Daniella Deutsch is a lover of vintage clothing, the stories they tell, and the ones she hopes to create in them.
In my final year of high school, exam season presented a unique opportunity for manifestation. Once I’d completed my test paper, I always used the back of my question booklet to map out what I wanted in my future life —the life that lay beyond those harrowing exams. The formula came down to three simple things: I wanted books, a ginger cat, and a lot of clothes. I detailed my perfect life while listening to the hundreds of students scratch their pens against paper, and the tapping of my hand-me-down, reminiscent of point shoes, ballet pumps that my godmother had gifted me in London the previous spring, on the gym floor. You see, I yearned for a life filled with clothes, but I didn’t want any of them to be new. The vintage bug had bitten me.
It began roughly around age 12, a time when I had decided I would not take input from the older women in my life on how to wear my clothes, but I would certainly take their old clothes and give my spin on them. Over the subsequent years, I dragged my dad out of suburbia and into Braamfontein, Johannesburg, on weekends to find anything that was a deep shade of burgundy and velvet, and vintage Levi 501s to cut into shorts that showed a bit too much leg – cheeky if you will.
Once I’d turned 18, I left the skyscrapers of Johannesburg for the shoreline of Cape Town and continued to search for clothing older than me. My fascination at the time was dresses from the 1960s to the 1980s, and I found them to be the perfect companions to the very many parties I attended. To me, it always felt like I was coming onto the dance floor not only with the confidence I’d swallowed at the pregame but the spirits of all the party girls before me. I felt as if I danced better in those dresses.
At 25, I decided to quit drinking, and with that, I headed home to regroup and repair – momentarily. What signifies a change of direction more than a pivot in footwear? I headed to the self-proclaimed Mick Jagger of Johannesburg, Fundi Leather, where I found my first pair of 1970s cowboy boots, and at once, cocktails were out and cowgirl was in. I spent a summer pairing them with various vintage nightgowns I found at charity stores, whilst repeatedly trying to confirm to my family that I was doing great.
In fact, I really was. After that summer, I decided to turn my love of vintage clothing into something more permanent by offering my time and hands to some of Cape Town’s most beloved vintage institutions. Asseblief Vintage plucked me from the dust and restored my lost sparkle, just as its owner, Chris Wagner, does with each piece that passes through his hands. Chris has a gift for unearthing the stories stitched into every garment and carefully recording fragments of their past lives on the price tags. At Asseblief Vintage, I learned that beauty often lies in unusual proportions, and that clothes—like people—carry histories worth preserving. Its magic keeps me warm like the soft ’90s Afghan Coat I’ve made into a character preset outfit of mine due to the frequency of its wear, and keeps me forever covered in ’70s glamour glitter.
Afraid of Mice, another vintage haven, gave me the chance to put my eyes and pen to work by helping to capture the opulence of their collections. There, I encountered Valentino plum-coloured leather stiletto boots, Save the Queen’s medieval-inspired blouses, Cavalli party dresses, and inspiration to look beyond my borders.
When I look at my wardrobe, I see many things: I see eras of clothing history, my own eras, and the potential new memories to be had in them. I’ve never understood not loving vintage clothing. As a woman who comes with my own personal archive of memories, I like that my clothing has its own, too.
