It was an average afternoon in my Sunday playbook. I took my usual lap around the local flea market. Every two weeks, one of my favorite sellers, David Mark, hosts a booth. For years, I’ve bought vintage clothing from him, and by some cosmic coincidence, every pair of pants I pull from his rolling rack fits perfectly.
Lately, David hadn’t been wheeling in his rack. “What happened to the clothes?” I asked. “Wait. I have something for you,” he replied. He stood up and—like a magician—produced a pair of black, wide-legged wool trousers. “Comme des Garçons, 1994. They’ll fit you, and I’ll kill you if you don’t buy them. Go. Now. Try them on.”
Minutes later, in a fluorescent-lit flea market bathroom, I confirmed that David was right. Back at the booth, I asked, “How much?” “For you . . . $60.” He paused. “Oh, and they’re from Linda Dresner.” My ears rang as if a higher power whispered to me.
Years prior, I worked for Linda Dresner at her namesake boutique in Birmingham, Michigan. Linda Dresner—the person—was an independent retailer, and Linda Dresner—the stores, she also had one on Park Avenue in New York—were multi-brand retail spaces offering wearable art at a luxury level. The stores were designed by Michael Gabellini, marking an era in 1990s fashion and architectural design that embraced enlightened minimalism, which perfectly suited the minimalist aesthetic of the clothing Dresner sold.
Linda’s floorplans were spacious and uninterrupted; garments hung with intention on long, straight rails and in quiet alcoves. Seen from the sidewalks, the boutiques looked more like art galleries than shops—which wasn’t entirely wrong. In addition to clothing, Linda’s stores housed art from her personal collection.
Linda was a sharp businesswoman with unwavering conviction in her creative vision. She championed designers like Rei Kawakubo, Jil Sander, and Yoji Yamamoto long before they were household names or before “minimalism” and “deconstruction” became buzzwords in the fashion biz.
Each year, Linda flew to Paris Fashion Week and returned with a buy that routinely included Comme des Garçons (CDG), Yohji Yamamoto, Dries Van Noten, and designers she suspected would influence the language of fashion. When I worked there, edgy, avant-garde brands including Maison Margiela, Balenciaga, and Vetements. Linda wasn’t wrong; she had an eye for talent. After a forty-five-year career, she closed her doors in 2021.
In my memories of working for Linda, she typically arrived in signature style: black trousers (CDG or Yohji), a top with a loose-fitting blazer, and her trademark navy bandana elegantly tied across her forehead. Linda and her sales team styled clients with imagination, introducing them to pieces they may not have considered elsewhere, but often loved. And her clients were loyal—friends.
Stories surrounding Linda’s New York store were the kind retail legends are made of. Jacqueline Onassis, for instance, enjoyed eating lunch in a fitting room there—a sanctuary away from paparazzi, and conveniently surrounded by beautiful clothing.
Linda had lived multiple lives by the time I met her: she modeled, married at seventeen, and entered the retail world through a joint business venture with a friend before opening her own stores. Some people, they say, are born to do a certain thing. For Linda, that thing was clearly this. And now, years later, she found her way back into my life through a pair of trousers. A full-circle moment of what goes around “Commes” around. I think this is a flea market’s superpower—bringing things back around.
The encounter made me think of all the garments Linda sold. They’re all out there, in closets, street corners, and even flea markets—awaiting a new generation of wearers. If you own a piece from Linda Dresner, cherish it. It’s a piece of American fashion history.
