“I fall in love with old things all the time”: Swedish stylist Karin Smeds opens her vintage collection for Vogue Scandinavia

Somebody once said, “you should love people and use objects – not the opposite”. But I just can’t help myself, I fall in love with objects all the time. Especially old things, and most persistently, old clothes. When a garment speaks to me, making itself desirable in my eyes, it’s mainly because of the cultural reference it carries and the feeling that gives me. If it's aged, it seems to contain soul in a way that an object new out of the box will lack. The soul is in the fragments of memories from past times, in the signs of use and care from someone not here anymore.

A piece of vintage clothing can hold stories of parties, traditions, labour, attraction, travels, weddings... a life lived. More importantly, it carries notions of style and aesthetic details that may have been forgotten in the present, yet seem to demand the light once again. I love it, I buy it. And so my archive grows larger and larger, even as its storage only grows tighter. I love every piece, and I seldom let any go. But the greatest joy is dressing someone in it – like our model, Vanessa, for this Vogue Scandinavia story.

Letting my archive out into the world for this photoshoot with Lo [Vahlström] is one way of justifying this obsession of mine. I intend to find others. When I first began collecting in the early 2000s, I was a stylist assistant living on a modest salary. One great perk, however, was being gifted pieces – both old and new – from the stylist I assisted. While shopping for assignments, he might say: “Those ’70s Yves Saint Laurent shades look too good on you, we have to buy them for you,” or, “It’s an awful sin to let that Veronique Branquinho ensemble just hang there on sale – you must wear it instead.” I didn’t object. And since fashion over 25 years old is considered vintage, that Branquinho gift has officially crossed the threshold.

Another reason my archive began to swell was the economics of vintage fashion. Early on, I learned that a garment which might feel outdated stylistically, but which is crafted from luxury materials with techniques and craftsmanship that today would cost a fortune, could be found for a fraction of its true value.

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By studying the tags and brand logotypes, this nerd could pinpoint exactly which era a particular piece belonged to. Yves Saint Laurent quickly became one of my favourites, with his '70s muse Loulou de la Falaise standing out as a lasting style icon. Her silk headscarves, leather blazers, semi-precious stone bijoux and flowing gypsy blouses tucked into tight, high-waisted denim embodied a kind of laid-back luxury – the kind that made you feel rich yet carefree, even if I was, more often than not, poor and cautious.

Since then, my ultimate denim hunt (and it continues still) has been for the perfect ’70s Levi’s Orange Tab. The silk headscarf also became a permanent part of my everyday look, and remains so today. I still remember the thrill of finding my first Hermès scarf vintage (mint condition, still in its box) for almost nothing.

And just like that, a new collectible entered the agenda: the Carré 90 from Hermès. With endless variations to discover, the hunt was irresistible.

YSL, on the other hand, was relatively easy to find – which made collecting both fun and thrilling. I searched for his iconic smoking dress for quite some time before finally finding mine in Brussels. Since Yves Saint Laurent was among the early adopters of ready-to-wear in the late ’60s, and the brand’s heyday in the ’70s and ’80s produced pieces in large numbers, YSL treasures were well-represented in both thrift shops and curated vintage boutiques. This was before online shopping existed, so the chase meant visiting physical stores. Luckily, the travel that came with my work as a stylist opened new doors, and my free time was often spent scouring the vintage haunts of whatever city I found myself in.

Related: Your insider guide to shopping vintage fashion online

But I also found more unconventional ways to track down YSL. In 2003, I placed a note in the classified ads section of Sweden’s biggest newspaper that read something like: 'Buying: Authentic Yves Saint Laurent – will pay well'. Three old women responded, and I visited each of them in their homes. One meeting turned into a lovely afternoon with a dignified lady who shared stories of her life as an ambassador’s wife in '60s Paris, where she would shop at the newly opened Yves Saint Laurent store on the Rive Gauche.

That day, she sold me a square, brown, croco-embossed patent leather YSL bag, a piece I still absolutely love.

Another favourite YSL silhouette for me was the power look of a woman in an oversized men’s suit, preferably cut from the finest sartorial fabrics. Women’s suits at the time were much tighter – this was decades before Demna Gvasalia’s Balenciaga sent the big blazer down the runway (though David Byrne arguably did it first in Stop Making Sense back in 1983). I had my vintage YSL suits altered at the tailor into a slightly slimmer, flared silhouette, while still keeping the oversized effect. It’s a look I still turn to whenever I want to feel strong. And for evening, an ’80s Kenzo smoking jacket embellished with colourful gemstones became my nocturnal version of that same look.

My love of ’70s prints also led me to collect pieces from the Swedish grande dame of fashion, Katja of Sweden, as well as Finland’s pride and joy, Marimekko. Original ’70s prints still make my heart sing, evoking some of my earliest childhood memories. My sister also adored Marimekko, and when our favourite ’60s minidress style proved impossible to find, she would buy the fabrics and sew them for us herself.

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The most loving gift of all is something handmade. Over the years, my personal style has shifted through more minimalistic phases, leading me to collect early Jil Sander, ’90s Prada Sport and original Martin Margiela. The Margiela two-in-one crossover cord trousers that bankrupted me in Tokyo in 2000 have just officially turned vintage. Does that mean they now belong in my vintage storage? I hope not – they’re still the only baggy trousers I wear regularly.

Of course, part of my love for old things is nostalgia. I once opened a box in my grandmother’s seaside country house and found a silk scarf stamped with the old ’60s Balmain logotype and the words Miss Balmain. I sat on the floor for a long time, thinking about her and what that day might have been like when she received it. Was it a gift, or did she buy it herself? Was she on a trip to Paris, or did she find it in Sundsvall, where she lived her entire life? Did she wear it as a headscarf in the summer winds at that very house – just as I will now? That piece I could never let go.

My archive is filled with these kinds of soulful memories, and I suspect it won’t shrink for as long as I’m around. Or perhaps, when I retire, I’ll open a boutique and let my beloved old things wander on to make new memories with someone else.