MAGNIFICENT OBSESSION

A new book gives an inside look at fashion's most ardent archivists, from Michèle Lamy to Azzedine Alaïa.

- Mary H.K. Choi

There's a moment in the life of every clotheshorse when a dedication to sartorial acquisition crosses into a different breed of hunger. For me, for a while, it was an altruistic mission. There I was, in a Thrift Town in San Antonio, Texas, in the late '90s, a recent transplant from Hong Kong in my teens. The article of clothing was a strong-shouldered black cashmere Byblos cropped jacket from the '80s. I ignored the sizing, scandalized briefly to have seemingly leapt sizes, and slid it on. The silk lining was cool despite the hundred-degree weather, and the fit exquisite. Life-affirming. To this day, I can invoke the kinesthetic delight of massaging the shoulders of the jacket to learn-with curiosity, then astonishment-that the shape wasn't due to foam piles dangling precariously from the hilt of the armhole, but rather that the shoulders almost seemed to have been felted into the garment itself. No amount of fondling would reveal its secrets-barring autopsy, it's doubtful I'll ever know-and I was spellbound. I glanced at myself in the mirror with a sense of recognition. It wasn't a costume but a portal. Not into the future, or into some adult occasion that would call for a blazer, but a peek at a heretofore unseen version of myself I'd suspected was always there. Who else would appreciate it with any sense of reverence in that godforsaken strip mall? I considered it a rescue. I had to buy the jacket. No matter the cost ($15).