Amid Williamsburg’s competitive retail scene, Malin Landaeus’ vintage shop is still around after thirteen years.
Dressed in plain black leggings and a crew neck top with a faded sports logo, the Swedish store owner, Malin Landaeus, emanates an energy that she is from the fashion industry, but not consumed by it.
Her namesake store sells high-end vintage fashion in Brooklyn’s ‘it’ neighborhood: Williamsburg. Since opening in 2007, it has occupied the same spot along central Bedford Avenue—not a small feat in a neighborhood where the median rent is $2, 987, according to Douglas Elliman’s January 2020 report.
Yet the store is as unassuming as its owner. No distinct logo or branding. No window signage.
Hunched over a pile of clothes tags, Landaeus motions for me to get comfortable.
Behind us is a white couch with size 11 boots propped on top, a nod to their reputation for carrying high quality, vintage leather shoes.
With not much space to work with, walking into the store feels like entering someone’s studio apartment. The items on display are not immediately apparent; only revealing themselves to you through further observation.
Hats on the walls.
Belts by the dressing room.
Gloves and scarves scattered about.
The checkout counter, Landaeus reveals, is “actually not a checkout counter. It’s a kitchen counter. We have a microwave, a fridge, a sink behind.”
The clothes tags feel like they belong in a box found in your grandmother’s attic. Inscribing descriptions of items as if they were memories, one tag, with handwritten penmanship, reads: “This spectacular structure of sequins, pearls, and lace is by Retimo di Perla - for the legendary Italian house of LA PERLA. This dress is something of fantasy. $359”
The items in Malin Landaeus don’t come cheap. Landaeus explains that’s how writing the clothes tags came about, to give value and context to their selection.
Landaeus knows what she and her store are worth. Although soft-spoken, she is also savvy.
Her decision to sell vintage was borne from purpose, tempered by pragmatism.
While working for an organic cotton company in California in the early ‘90s, Landaeus learned a lot about sustainability. “I made a decision not to buy anything new. I was going to, really really stop, consuming new, and try to find everything I needed in what was already out there.”
This was also the period of the Rio de Janeiro Earth Summit, where she recalls: “One of the big turning points was 1990, having my daughter and realizing already then that, our future on the planet looked very dire.”
Landaeus eventually moved to New York and also started practicing reiki.
In 2005, before she could afford a brick and mortar shop, she occupied a stall in Williamsburg’s flea market, Artists & Fleas, for two years. “That was when there was no one else really doing vintage…It was cold, there was no heating… Sometimes it would rain in, you had left your stuff, everything was wet. It was very rough.”
The stall was her main source of income. She uncomfortably recalls those days as a response to financial urgency. “I had to do something. I just decided to sell my own clothes.”
As a regular fixture at Artists & Fleas, Landaeus built a following among designers. She would handpick pieces for them, setting them aside in separate bags, which they in turn would purchase and use for inspiration.
This would later set Landaeus apart from other vintage brands. “When I started, I was very clear that I didn’t want to be just another vintage store. I wanted to be a competition to Madewell, Wang, or Urban Outfitters. Or higher end labels too. Rather than go to Barney’s to buy a pair of boots, come and buy a pair of boots that Barney’s used to sell in the ‘90s and the quality is better.”
Ironically, Barney’s filed for bankruptcy in August 2019.
Landaeus opened her shop along North 6th and Bedford Avenue in 2007. Having been open for thirteen years, the shop still retains her personal touch.
While sitting on the same white couch that was around thirteen years ago, Landaeus reenacts how during the store’s early days, she would pull out a drawer underneath the couch, then grab a receipt book, calculator and credit card machine. As a customer, “you would sit next to me and I would pack up your things and we would maybe have tea or something.”
Until today, Landaeus is the buyer of everything sold in her store. She describes her criteria as: “Would I wear it or not? I don’t want to have a lot of stuff that ‘someone’ would like. But if we like it, then we know it’s good.”
While the nature of vintage means one of a kind pieces with no sizing options, they place a lot of attention on fit.
“I don’t buy anything unless it’s a good fit. If you take three things in the dressing room with you, and nothing fits, chances are that you’re not going to come back. I want two out of three to fit you perfectly.”
During our interview, a female customer, who has been shopping at the store for eight years, chimes in on one dress she bought: “I still have it. I still wear it all the time… Some of my best pieces are from here.”
Landaeus emphasizes: “The creativity in the store is in the curating.”
Although I personally haven’t purchased an item from Malin Landaeus, it is my favorite place to window shop in Williamsburg. I would get creative stimulation just by browsing their clothes racks, much like art in a museum.
I still remember the pieces that I tried on. A Sex and the City-reminiscent, pink and green Betsey Johnson slip dress with velvet flowers. While shopping for a wedding, I found instead, something perfect for a funeral: a black Anne Klein dress with the simplest white bow around the waist. When cycling shorts got trendy. they sold a unique pair of undergarment-looking, white lace shorts; hand dyed blue and green by Landaeus herself.
They don’t do sales, because “once I have something I like, if it’s not feeling right, it will feel right again,” says Landaeus. “I think it’s important that if people don’t buy anything, it wasn’t meant to be. I feel if you’re in that space [of], ‘Did we sell it?’ People will know and will feel, ‘this is just a business.’ “
Landaeus has stuck to her resolve to not consume new, yet she makes an exception through the store’s supplementary business: the showroom. It’s here where she and her staff work with designers, providing vintage pieces that serve as inspiration for producing their own collections.
She admits: “In a way, I should say I don’t want to help people make more stuff. But if they’re going to make more stuff, they might as well make things that are good-looking.”
Although an elusive part of her business, the showroom’s clientele ranges from heritage houses (Yves Saint Laurent, Givenchy) to cult favorites (Alexander Wang, Maryam Nassir Zadeh); even streetwear (Supreme New York).
Yet despite her big-name clients, Landaeus remains close to her customers.
“It’s not more important to sell, than actually form a relationship.” She credits that most of her business is from “regular customers who basically, pretty much, only shop here. Or in a few places.”
Beyond the clothes at Malin Landaeus, is a community built from the past thirteen years.
Every Sunday at 4pm, the shop serves free tea and pastries, with vegan chocolate cake baked by Landaeus.
In April 2020, they sold clothes online with 100% of proceeds going to pandemic relief.
A conversation with Landaeus can easily go from fashion, food, to politics—and perhaps if I stayed longer—even my personal life.
She has that effect on people, to make them feel like opening up, not as a result of prodding, but out of the sense of protection she creates in her space; possibly linked to her training in the healing practice of reiki.
She shares: “Why are people coming to me and saying, ‘I got my favorite things here.’ I know I have beautiful things but there are other places where you can find beautiful things. So I think it’s… something more, than just selling clothes that I have.”
After Sunday tea with Malin, pictured here wearing a jumper, February 2020.