The Magic of Marshall Field’s
There was a clock on the side of Marshall Field’s on State Street, Chicago that I could still see perfectly in my mind — its face gleaming above the bustle of downtown, framed by city lights and the crisp electric charge of the holiday season. I’d stand on the sidewalk as a kid, neck craned back, just staring at it, letting the magic of what waited inside wash over me before I even stepped through those revolving doors. Marshall Field’s wasn’t a department store. It was a stage. It was a film set. It was the place where I first started learning who I was going to become.
Before I ever made it through those doors, the display windows stopped me completely. The mannequins standing tall behind the glass — dressed in structured headpieces, luxurious faux fur trim, and cozy knitwear — looked like characters in a story I desperately wanted to join. Marshall Field’s holiday windows didn’t just show clothes; they offered entire worlds. I’d press close to the glass, studying every detail, filing away ideas, rehearsing silhouettes in my mind. Shopping at Marshall Field’s in 1993 felt like walking into a dream I’d been practicing since childhood.
Once I finally made it inside, I drifted from department to department as if I had all the time in the world — because in those moments, I really did. I loved everything: the makeup counters glowing with rows of lipsticks, the clothing and outerwear neatly arranged, the shoes calling my name from across the floor. But the best days, the golden days, were always the sale days. That’s when the real treasures surfaced. There was a special section where marked-down clothing waited like hidden gems, and I hunted through it with the focus of someone who knew exactly what she was looking for. On those racks I found the latest baggy style denim — the kind that draped down over your shoes just right — oversized flannel shirts that felt borrowed from some cool older friend, and grunge slip dresses that blended softness and edge in a way that perfectly defined the early ’90s.
The Hunt Begins: Sale Days & Levi’s
Some of my favorite fashion pieces back then were Levi’s 501s — a straight fit with a slightly higher rise that gave them just the right shape — along with Levi’s 550s and Levi’s 901s. Finding them half off on those racks felt like winning the style lottery. I’d pair them in my mind with cropped tops and slouchy sweaters, imagining the silhouettes I could create, running my fingers along the denim and knits, determined to find the perfect combination that felt uniquely, undeniably mine. I could spend hours on those floors. I usually did.
The Overall Obsession
As the years rolled on, a new obsession took hold: denim overalls. To me, they were the ultimate “it” outfit — cool, effortless, and just rebellious enough. I’d wait, almost impatiently, for Marshall Field’s to announce a sale, because those were the days I’d lose myself entirely in the racks. The pairs I loved most had silver hardware that gleamed under the store lights and generous side pockets that made them feel both practical and edgy. I’d style them with a cute crop top or a fitted tank and fresh sneakers for summer, then layer them over a snug long-sleeve top or a cozy turtleneck when winter rolled in, instantly transforming the whole look into a cold-weather statement. The racks at Marshall Field’s were a denim playground — lined with Levi’s SilverTab, OshKosh B’gosh, Calvin Klein, Guess, and Tommy Hilfiger, each pair promising a slightly different kind of cool. I practically had a field day — no pun intended — pulling one style after another, building my own little denim empire one shopping trip at a time.
DKNY
I found myself raiding Marshall Field’s racks for DKNY more and more during those years. There was something about the brand that spoke to my evolving sense of style — sophisticated without trying too hard, wearable without sacrificing edge. The classic bootcut denim was my weapon of choice, designed to be styled with sneakers for effortlessly cool days or ankle boots when I wanted to lean into something more refined. I’d stand in front of the mirror in those slightly creaky dressing rooms, imagining a thousand different ways to wear them, each pairing a small reinvention of myself. But it was the DKNY mom jeans that truly captured my heart — sitting just right on the hips, with a relaxed, generous fit that felt both nostalgic and current at the same time. I’d pair them with a fitted tee tucked in, or layer them with an oversized sweater that hung just so, and suddenly I felt like I’d stepped straight out of a Donna Karan New York campaign. As the late ’90s unfolded, DKNY shifted more toward relaxed leg silhouettes, and I was there for every transition, pulling pairs off the racks as if the store might disappear at any moment and I needed to stock up on that perfect feeling.
Calvin Klein
Another brand that had taken up permanent residence in my shopping heart was Calvin Klein. There was something minimalist and perfectly elegant about the way CK approached denim that spoke to the more grown-up version of myself I was becoming. The straight leg jeans were a revelation — clean lines, impeccable construction, a fit that felt custom-made even off the rack. I’d run my hands over the fabric, marveling at the quality, the way the denim had been treated with such care. But then there was the classic boot cut that fit through the thigh and slightly flared at the bottom — a style that felt like it understood exactly how I wanted to move through the world. Paired with anything from a simple white t-shirt to a structured blazer, those Calvin Klein jeans were the foundation of endless outfits. Every time I found a new pair at Marshall Field’s, it felt like discovering a secret ingredient that made everything else in my wardrobe work better together. They were my investment pieces, the kind I reached for again and again because they never failed me.
Guess
And then there was Guess — bold, iconic, and completely irresistible. Walking through Marshall Field’s on State Street and spotting those Guess racks felt like discovering a treasure map with X already marked. The first thing my eyes always went to was that triangle patch on the back pocket, the bold brand lettering stitched in gold against the denim, small enough to be subtle and loud enough to say everything. It was a signature detail that elevated every single pair, and I was obsessed. I’d work my way methodically through the washes, pulling one style after another: light wash pairs that looked sun-bleached and effortless, perfect for summer days; medium wash jeans with that classic lived-in look that went with absolutely everything; and deep, dark indigo washes that gleamed under the store lights like midnight denim, polished enough for a night out. My favorites were the classic straight leg that felt timelessly right, and the low rise boot cut that hugged all the right places and gave me a silhouette I absolutely lived for. What really made Guess sing was the incredible range of finishes: acid wash pairs that felt rebellious and fun, dirty wash denim that looked like it had already lived a life before I bought it, sandwash finishes soft and lived-in from day one. Walking through those aisles, pulling one pair after another from the racks, I felt like I was part of something bigger — a fashion moment, a cultural moment, a moment in my own life I was documenting one pair of jeans at a time.
Cashmere, Fur & Leather
Eventually, my wandering path always led me to the outerwear department, where the mood shifted from casual cool to quietly luxurious. There, I found tailored cashmere coats — true Chicago staples, built to stand up to the city’s harsh winters while still looking effortlessly elegant. I admired how they hung just so, their clean lines and soft texture promising both warmth and sophistication. Nearby, the leather jackets caught my eye, especially a buttery soft chocolate brown blazer that felt like the kind of piece you’d never want to take off once you slipped it on. And then there was Marshall Field’s fur collection — rows of full ranch-style mink coats and plush lamb jackets, each one whispering of another life, another era, another version of myself I could try on for a moment.
The Preppy Era
As fashion shifted and the floors hummed with a new energy, I found myself gravitating toward a more polished world. The preppy wave had arrived, and Marshall Field’s was ready for it: plaid pleated skirts swinging in neat rows, knee-high socks rolled in tidy stacks, oversized cardigans that looked borrowed from some handsome class president, sharp tailored blazers lined up like uniforms, and cropped baby tees whispering rebellion. There were entire stretches of color I’d only seen in fashion magazines until then — deep forest greens, wine reds, rich navies, even unexpected pastels humming softly under the bright store lights. Each blazer had its own attitude: structured shoulders here, a softer drape there, buttons gleaming like tiny jewelry. I drifted along the racks, pulling one, then another, then another. A few steps away, the denim section called to me, and I answered — distressed with perfectly frayed knees, stonewashed blues that felt like they’d already lived a life, pale almost icy bleached pairs. It was all about the mix: polished on top, effortless on the bottom. Then I’d turn toward the formal wear, where things got quiet and a bit more grown-up. Wool blazers with matching skirts, sharply tailored gray that felt like ambition, inky black that whispered authority. I’d slip the fabrics between my fingers — the dense reassuring weight of 100% wool, the smooth glide of rayon, the quiet luxury of silk linings that only I would know were there. Marshall Field’s felt like a secret atelier disguised as a department store, and I was piecing together my working-woman armor. I completed those days in the shoe department with a pair of Reebok classics — clean, crisp, a little sporty — the perfect counterpoint to all that structure up top.
The Shoe Department: Saving the Best for Last
No matter what else I found on any given visit — no matter how many blazers I tried on, how many overalls I pulled from the rack, how many denim washes I held up to the light — I always saved the shoe department for last. Like dessert. Like a reward. Marshall Field’s shoe floor felt like a gallery of possibilities: high-quality black leather block-heeled boots ready for city streets and long winter days; black suede vintage pumps that were impossibly soft to the touch, with a heel height that felt just right — understated and elegant in the most effortless way. And then there were the Christian Dior mules — elegant, refined, and slightly out of reach, yet close enough that I could picture the sound of their heels clicking confidently across those polished marble floors. Leaving the store, bags in hand and head full of outfits I’d worn only in my imagination, I felt a mixture of satisfaction and longing that I’ve never quite been able to replicate.
Why Marshall Field’s Will Always Have My Heart
Shopping at Marshall Field’s on State Street was always a special kind of magic — a rush of excitement from the moment I tilted my head back at that iconic clock, to the last bag swinging from my hand as I pushed back through those revolving doors into the Chicago air. It wasn’t just about buying clothes. It was about stepping into who I was becoming, one hanger, one dressing room, one pair of perfect jeans at a time. That’s what stayed with me, all these years later — the sense that, for a little while on State Street, surrounded by denim, cashmere, fur, leather, and those unforgettable holiday windows, I was living inside my own fashion story. Those memories never faded. They just became something I carried with me everywhere I went.