A Vintage Vow: The Story Behind One Vogue Editor’s 1957 Bergdorf Goodman Wedding Dress

The most significant dress I will ever wear could not, under any circumstances, be new. To wed in anything but vintage would have felt like a betrayal. For decades, I have dressed in garments from, or lovingly inspired by, the 1950s—a time when fashion was all about romance. If a wedding is a declaration of love, I was certain my wedding dress—a Bergdorf Goodman creation from 1957—would articulate it with an eloquence no current design could achieve.

Even though I live just two New York City blocks from Bergdorf Goodman—the most storied temple to fashion this side of the Atlantic—curiously, my dress was unearthed in the small Dutch town of Roermond. (More on that later.) I found it online and, upon its arrival, reverently unboxed it like a relic.

It was perfect. Urbane enough for a Manhattan City Hall wedding, yet still dainty. A slender row of covered buttons ran the bodice’s length, stopping at the bow cinched across the hips; above, a V-neck collar framed the neck with a swan-like elegance. But it was the interior that revealed the true gem: a “Bergdorf Goodman on the Plaza” label in the retailer’s distinctive lilac hue. Handwritten beneath the store’s name were the details: July 6, 1957, and the names O’Keefe and Cath.

Bergdorf Goodman has always been synonymous with high fashion, but the label “On the Plaza” harkened to a particular era. For decades, the flagship on Fifth Avenue and 58th Street housed a custom salon, an atelier bustling with seamstresses catering to the sartorial whims of society’s grande dames.

In February of 1956, Vogue published this cheeky excerpt from the then-upcoming Bergdorf’s on the Plaza book: “In the workrooms there are several thousand forms, each padded to the exact proportions of the customer it represents. Some have been there for thirty years; peel off the padding put on over the years, and you d see some lovely figures of many years and many desserts ago.”

The dress, then, was a remnant of Bergdorf’s golden age—when buyers returned from Paris with bonded models of Dior and Balenciaga to inspire their adaptations. O’Keefe, the likely bride, had been rendered immortal in silk by Cath, a dressmaker whose careful work was now in my possession.

So how, exactly, did this dress wind up in my hands? Well, my Poirot-worthy sleuthing led me down a trail that began with a Dutch dealer named Soul of Eve and wound through the world of Live Auctioneers. There, a fashion historian operating under the name Hoboken Auctions recalled buying it from a Chicago-based eBay seller who picked it up from Bristol Community College’s theater department in Fall River, Massachusetts. “It was donated,” I was told by the Chicago dealer, “by someone from New Bedford, Fall River, or somewhere in that region. Or maybe Rhode Island.”

Beyond that, the trail went cold, even after hours spent rifling through the Bergdorf Goodman archives housed at the Museum of the Fashion Institute of Technology; O’Keefe and her story slipped through my fingers. Yet even though her identity remains a mystery—dear reader, I am always open to your tips—one thing is certain: the woman had taste.

Given its circuitous journey, the dress required a little rejuvenation. Enter Patricia Voto, the designer-cum-bridal-whisperer behind One/Of whose atelier on East 70th Street has quietly become the place for discerning brides. She revived the once-wilted bow to a buoyant state and added to the architecture of the dress by trimming a strip of horsehair to the hem. Slight adjustments to the princess seams ensured it fit like a glove.

Accessories fell into place with poetic symmetry. A vintage Judith Leiber satin bag, antique ivory as the dress itself, was plucked from The RealReal. And though I had every intention of finding the perfect Manolo Blahnik mule at the legendary shoe designer’s boutique, it was Bergdorf Goodman—but of course—who had an exclusive on the style I wanted.

On my wrist was a Victoriana tennis bracelet and timeless diamond drops dangled from my ears, both from De Beers. My lips, as ever, were painted in the same shade of scarlet red I have worn for half a decade.

On the morning of September 29, I woke in a suite at the Plaza Hotel, a place packed with my memories—as a teenager, I worked there as a shop girl, selling Eloise books in the Plaza’s gift shop—to get ready with my sister. My hair was coiffed into a sleek modern bun by David Cotteblanche, the stylist behind three of my Met Gala hairdos, and a Bobbi Brown artist applied my makeup.

My husband arrived at the Plaza looking splendid: a custom navy suit, Tod’s shoes, and an Hermès tie. His lapel was adorned with Lily of the Valley—a bloom I insisted on carrying, despite its elusive, spring-only nature. My mother, with Herculean determination, procured a fall bouquet, knowing all too well that I wasn’t going to let go of the “references.” Blame it on Dior (who had a long love affair with the bloom) and Funny Face (in which Audrey Hepburn carries it as a fashion model playing the blushing bride).

Next, we trekked—umbrellas in hand, the rainy forecast only adding to the sense of adventure—to City Hall, where we joined a throng of couples, all giddy with anticipation. The room seemed to hum with the cacophony of love stories converging in one place. Amid the rush of it all, my dress and my carefully chosen details anchored me. In that moment, as I said “I do,” I felt—truly and unmistakably—myself.

Photo: Nela Kekic

The evening was spent celebrating with close family and friends at dinner at Fasano Club, where Champagne flowed, and toasts were made. By then, I had slipped into something less delicate: a white-and-black Mary McFadden Couture dress, also vintage, that had waited patiently in my closet for its special moment. McFadden’s signature pleats, with their effortless drape and freedom of movement, allowed me to revel fully in the festivities—it was the perfect piece to close out my very big day.

Photo: Nela Kekic

Months later, while headed to an event and carrying my Judith Leiber bridal bag, I stepped into my elevator and a very elegant woman beside me leaned in.

“Could I ask where you got that bag?” she asked. “I had one just like it, but I gave it to The RealReal.”

I admitted to her it was likely the very same purse and we bonded over its unlikely reunion. What are the odds? The chances were as improbable as they were perfect—much like finding the one person in a city of millions. Those odds felt oddly right.