We’ll Always Have Karl

Digital Collage Art by Stella Kalaw

It was a muggy August New York afternoon, and David and I had temporarily escaped the city, ducking into a cool church basement thrift shop. Racks sagging with clothes stretched from one end of the room to the other. 

Flipping through the racks like a gambler shuffles cards, I pondered how much ugly clothing ends up in such places. But therein lies the challenge. I like to think of myself as a fashion archeologist, digging for a fashion discovery. Howard Carter found Tutankhamen’s tomb; I dream of finding a Chanel suit, a leopard Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress or a pair of Roger Vivier pilgrim pumps like Catherine Deneuve wore in Belle de Jour (size 7.5B). 

Remembering past triumphs such as my vintage Bonnie Cashin leathers or the Pucci scarf unearthed from a basket at a garage sale, I grit my teeth and carry on. A couple of feet away, two pudgy spandexed chicks squeeze various garments over their clothes. I avert my eyes. Fashion archeology digs are not a pretty sight. A woman tries on a red sweater, taking it off and then trying it on again. And again.

David came over to see how I was doing and just then, my foraging fashion archeologist hand brushed what I instinctively knew was silk. I carefully pulled a twisted hanger out from the tangle of frocks. It was a sad crumple of navy blue and cream silk. A partially attached shoulder pad hung forlornly out of one sleeve. Fashion archeology demands imagination. I straightened the dress on the wire (sigh) hanger. It was sexy and stunning. Then I checked the label. I gasped. Audibly. It was a Karl Lagerfeld. I looked again. It really was a Karl. Looking David in the eye I hissed, “I’m not paying more than ten dollars.”

Casually flinging the dress over my arm, I strolled across the room to the cashier. Polite and terribly Canadian, I nonchalantly asked the clerk how much the dress cost. I didn’t dare appear too interested. “Eight dollars” she said with a friendly smile. Within my budget. Gliding back across the room I whispered to David, “Eight dollars!” I checked for rips and stains and tried the zipper. A few loose threads, a dislocated shoulder pad but otherwise perfect. And in a few minutes it would be mine! I could barely contain my delight. Ten-dollar bill in hand, I returned to the cashier.

The friendly lady was gone, replaced by a dour blue-haired Upper West Side Presbyterian. I put the dress on the counter, held my breath and smiled. 

“Sorry ma’am.”

I froze. My heart was beating. I could feel Karl’s silk slipping through my fingers.

“Dresses are on sale, two for one. Please go back and choose a second dress.”

I breathed out. In a split second, I snatched some pink linen from the nearest rod and sprinted back to the counter. The cashier handed me my change and slid my purchases into a plastic K-mart bag. Later, I tried on my Karl—it fit perfectly.

That evening at dinner, David perused our fellow diners and declared that he was certain that none of them had ever found a Karl Lagerfeld dress for only $4. I agreed, knowing that in fashion archeology terms, it had been a day of monumental discovery. “We’ll always have Karl,” he said as we lifted our glasses to Karl and to the benefactor who had brought this dress into my life. As the cool wine slid down my throat, I wondered what else was in the bag of cast-offs donated to the church thrift shop by the person who gave away my Karl.

Back home in Montreal, I arranged my Karl on my mannequin, took photographs and giddily emailed news of my magnificent discovery to my friends. I showed the dress to anyone who came over. Lovingly, I reattached snaps, shoulder pads, hooks and eyes and the belt loops using the finest silk thread. I purchased matching shoes and a special bra. I debated as to which earrings would go best. Finally, I was ready to wear my Karl; all that I needed was an occasion.

A few months later, I decided to wear it for my 50^th birthday party. I slid my Karl off my 1951 vintage mannequin and onto my 1958 vintage body. I felt marvellous, like a navy and cream Karl Lagerfeld apparition floating through the evening.    

I have only worn my Karl once. When the next occasion presents itself, Karl and I will be ready. Until then, my Karl is wrapped in acid-free tissue, nestled in a vintage suitcase, awaiting its next showing. I am still a fashion archeologist, but the discovery of Karl is my Pompeii.