The is the retail department This street, due to its post-apocalyptic state, became known in our family as the “28 Days Later Store.” Light fixtures hung from a white fiberboard ceiling. Piles of folded sweaters and polo shirts rolled into disarray, their tags showing increasing discounts that seemed to shout over each other. The escalator, which had not been serviced for almost a year, stood motionless. Nervous shoppers scrambled up the heavy, corrugated steps in search of a restroom or the nearest exit to the parking lot. All the cosmetic counters were decorated with displays stripped down to East German standards. There were few sellers. Their job was to roam the floor, maintain vague eye contact, and prevent thefts. But as Adam and the ants said: What's the point of robbery when there's nothing worth taking?
The Bay, where I sat on Santa's lap, where Mrs. V (a real corsetiere) tried on my first expensive bra and rolled her eyes during a summer job at a temporary estate's silver counter, was dead. The department store was dead. E-commerce and big box stores dominate.
However, I am a woman of a fierce nature and have maintained my secret love of department stores with the tenacity of a sticker on the bottom of the residual soap dispenser at Winners. It all started around 1975 with trips to Eaton's in downtown Vancouver. There I watched as glamorous women in uniform (gold button suits or ridiculous white lab coats) cosmetically transformed my mother into the Bianca Jagger of Terminal City before she handed over her Chargex to ram the cruel little car. There were milliners, shoe stores, hair salons and (oh my God) toys. And there were cafes where you could have lunch from time to time; In the modular, pseudo-marine splendor of the Marine Room, even a bowl of mushroom soup tasted extravagant.
In my idealistic childhood brain, the department store was what the world should be: a colorful organism made of interacting parts. When you were in one, the chaos beyond dissolved into Muzak-sweet nothingness. In June 1976, during a trip to London, my parents dragged me to Harrods to try on duffle coats. Outside the hallowed walls of the store, the town was sweltering in the heat and teeming with tourists and locals. I might as well be on a space station.
As an adult, I try to consume mindfully. I fix, save, change. I'm a fan of family-owned coffee shops and supporting small businesses. But old habits die hard. If there's a break on a day of meetings in Toronto or family business in Vancouver, I sneak into Holt's and float through the colorful displays, replacing eyeliner or talking my way into a handful of perfume samples. When traveling, I look for department stores like hashish dealers, a chapel or a clinic. I saw actual stalls dedicated to abanicos (fans) and mantillas (El Corte Inglés, Barcelona). I was kicked out onto the street for taking photographs of the window of a pastry shop (de Bienkorf, Rotterdam). I passed out on Christmas Eve and woke up in the arms of a wonderful paramedic (Samaritin, Paris). Where else could this happen?
Here's one for the analyst's couch: A big magazine has officially entered my dreams. Since my mother's death in May 2024, I have been wandering around the city at night in the throes of REM sleep. And I accidentally stumbled upon a giant department store. Dresses and furs hang on hangers in mirrored salons; hats sit on plaster heads like fantastic birds ready to fly. On the ground floor there are rows of lipsticks and glass display cases with chocolates and petit fours. I am the only living person among this surreal curatorial abundance.
And here I stand, hours before waking up in a world of decay and strife, holding my breath. I'm waiting for all this to magically begin to function again, like a well-kept music box, like childhood, like the movement of the planets themselves.
Melanie Lambrick is an illustrator living on a remote island in British Columbia. She has worked with an international list of clients including New York Times, Atlantic, Washington Postand Volkswagen.
