Blimey, that takes me back! I was just thinking about this the other day, rummaging through a proper jumble of a vintage shop in Brick Lane, you know the one? All dusty and smelling of old wood and… well, dust. And there it was, tucked behind a hideous 70s lamp – this mirror. It wasn't just a mirror, mind you. It was a whole *vibe*. It stopped me dead.
Right, so, vintage curves. It's never just a simple round or oval, is it? That's too… polite. Too modern. A proper retro mirror, think 60s or 70s, has curves with *opinions*. They're often asymmetric, like a teardrop that got a bit wonky on one side. Or think of a kidney bean – the classic kidney shape! – but not a perfect one. More like the bean you'd actually pull from the ground, with a soft, organic dip and swell. It’s not drawn with a compass; it’s drawn by hand after a couple of gins. The edges might be sinuous, like a slow-moving river on a map. I once saw a mirror in a Paris flea market, must've been late 60s, shaped like a giant, molten pebble. You could practically feel the maker smoothing the plaster form with their thumbs. That’s the thing – the curves feel *hand-made*, not machine-pressed.
And the finishes! Oh, don't get me started on the glorious, glorious finishes. Chrome was king for a bit, but the real character comes from the stuff that's… lived. Think of sun-faded, painted wood in a pale avocado green or a mustard yellow that’s lost its sharpness. The paint isn't flaking badly, but it’s got that soft, chalky patina you can only get from forty years of morning sun in a Brighton flat. You run your finger over it and it feels like velvet, not plastic.
Then there's the brass. But not shiny, new brass from the DIY shop. Heaven forbid! It's brass that's been breathed on, tarnished in spots, gone a bit dark in the crevices. Sometimes it's been lacquered to keep that dull, warm glow. Other times, it's been left to get a bit moody and green in places. It tells a story. I bought a small art deco-inspired mirror last year from a car boot sale in Chiswick – the frame was this slender, flowing brass that had gone almost entirely to a gentle, milky verdigris. My partner said it looked dirty. I said it looked like it had been salvaged from the Titanic! (In a good way.)
And let's not forget the weird and wonderful. Resin frames mixed with glitter. Psychadelic swirls of orange and brown melamine. Mirrors set into what looks like beaten, hammered copper – all dents and dimples that catch the light differently. It’s tactile. You *want* to touch it. A modern mirror frame is often just a barrier to the glass. A retro mirror frame is the main event.
I remember helping a client in Notting Hill find a statement piece for her hallway. She wanted something "with soul." We spent a whole Saturday looking, and she kept rejecting perfect, shiny replicas. Then we found it: a huge, heavy 1970s sunburst mirror. The rays were made of dozens of little wooden dowels, each one stained a slightly different shade of walnut and oak, some with the varnish worn right off. It wasn't symmetrical. One ray was even a bit shorter, like it had snapped off and been glued back on. She adored it. Said it felt "happy" and "a bit clumsy." That’s the magic, isn't it? The imperfections are the personality.
So yeah, next time you see one, don't just look *in* it. Look *at* it. The curves should feel like a lazy Sunday, and the finish should whisper secrets about where it's been. If it looks too perfect, walk on by. The real ones are the ones that look like they've got stories to tell.
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