I wrote a book called I’ll Take It, which was a tribute to my mother, her sisters, and their inspiring gift for shopping. They taught me that shopping is not a frivolous or shameful activity, but a celebration of both the human spirit, and the human spirit’s reverence for tchotkes, factory seconds, and the difference between true sale items and the crap they manufacture directly for those bogus “outlet” stores.
I’ve just read that Barneys is re-claiming its original store on 7th Avenue and 17th Street, now that Loehmann’s, the current tenant, is going out of business. This is a bittersweet moment, because while Barneys’ return to its ancestral home has a Lord of the Rings-scale resonance, we must all take a moment to mourn the passing of Loehmann’s, for what it once was.
The original Loehmann’s, founded in 1921, was housed in Brooklyn, and it was a true discount nirvana, where manufacturers would discreetly send their unsold, often high-end goods. Mrs. Frieda Loehmann lived over the store, and she would stand watch, making change, using the bills tucked within her ancient black dresses. She was a figure from Edgar Allen Poe, if Poe had understood the orgasm of a silk St. Laurent blouse, maybe missing a button, but still 80% off what you’d pay at Bergdorf’s.
Loehmann’s was considered a sacred and secret destination; you had to know about it. It was famous for its large, open, proudly democratic dressing room. There were no individual changing areas, so all the women would stand in their underwear, trying things on and freely offering advice to strangers: “That looks marvelous on you.” “It’s hitching up in the back.” “Frankly, it’s a little young.”
Husbands and sons were not welcome at Loehmann’s; their job was to stand uncomfortably off in a corner, holding a wife’s or a mother’s purse, so that the women’s hands would be free, to shop.
Years later, after Loehmann’s had been sold to a conglomerate, it became a nationwide chain, and lost its legendary luster. There were too many stores, and too few genuine finds, the racks filled with what could only be termed “a whole lot of polyester nothing.” Or as my aunts liked to say, while holding up a shirtwaist, “This is from those sisters, Polly and Esther.”
Of course, part of the Loehmann’s experience involved patiently pawing through chrome racks filled with junk, and then coming upon a gem, and gasping. The branch on 7th Avenue had a basement filled with menswear, and I’d occasionally find a true bargain, on something from last season. But it wasn’t the old Loehmann’s; it was just a slightly more sophisticated Daffy’s.
So maybe it was time for Loehmann’s to go, and for Barneys to rediscover its downtown roots. There was once a memorable TV ad for Barneys, where a bunch of kids sat on a New York stoop, discussing what they wanted to be when they grew up. One kid wanted to be a lawyer, another wanted to be a fireman, and a third aimed to become president. The group turned to a schnooky kid and someone asked, “So Barney, what’re you gonna be?” Young Barney replied, thoughtfully, “Well, you’re all gonna need clothes…”
After I’ll Take It was first published, it was widely read among my Aunt Lil’s friends in South Florida, who knew a thing or two about shopping. Of course, to save money, there was basically only one copy of the book in the entire state, and it would circulate among hundreds of women, many of whom would tell me, “I’m next.” While this wasn’t good for sales, I couldn’t complain.
My mother liked to buy used copies of I’ll Take It from Amazon, and give them as gifts. There’s a poetry to that.
