In late June 2025, just beyond the slope of Montmartre in the Ninth, a small shop opened with the quiet pull of a premiere. It is called La Loge. Paris has no shortage of vintage, yet this place adds a clean twist. Every garment once worked on a set. The racks do not hold attic sundresses or estate blazers. They hold a coat that wrapped a leading man during a chase, a blouse that framed an actress in a close-up, the kind of jeans you are certain you saw sprinting over cobbles in a French series. These are not simply clothes. They are costumes returned to civilian life.
La Loge is the work of two veterans of the French industry, the stylist and costume designer Mélody Colange and the producer Sarah Gerin. For years they watched warehouses swell after wrap days. Some pieces had been worn once. Some had never left their plastic. Continuity demanded duplicates, novelty demanded the next thing, and the result was a quiet accumulation that felt both inevitable and wasteful. Their answer was modest and humane. Give the clothes back to the street, not as props, as fashion.
The room completes the idea. Red velvet curtains frame the walls. Old cinema seats, rescued from the Élysée Lincoln near the Champs-Élysées, line the floor like extras waiting for a cue. Dressing rooms glow with vanity bulbs that flatter even on a grey afternoon. The effect is half boutique and half set, which is to say it is entirely immersive. You try on a blazer and feel your posture lift a little, as if a first assistant were about to knock and call you to set.
Clothes with Credits
Every piece carries its paper trail. The tag gives the title, the character, and sometimes the scene. A simple pair of jeans at sixty euros turns out to have belonged to Plume, played by Anne Marivin in a hit French series. The denim stops being only cotton and cut. It becomes memory stitched into a seam. Sarah puts it neatly. You are not only buying a coat, you are buying the life the coat has lived.
The stock is a collage of the city’s screens. A practical T-shirt from an action picture that later landed on a streaming platform. A slinky dress from a moody thriller. The odd commercial relic as well, a suit that once sold a bottle of sparkling water, a cheerful hat from a fast-food spot. Prices begin under ten euros for a high-street tee and climb to about one hundred seventy for a designer shirt made for a feature. Once in a while a brand-new costume slips onto the rail, ordered for a shoot and never used, a secret that never made the final cut.
Wednesday premieres
France opens films on Wednesdays. La Loge keeps the same beat. Each week, as new titles reach cinemas, fresh costumes from those productions arrive in the shop. The notion is simple and a little thrilling. You leave a matinee, you walk a few blocks, and you step into the outfit you just watched on screen. The pieces move quickly. When they are gone, they are gone.
Fashion and footprint, with a touch of stardust
La Loge is not a gimmick. It is a small, graceful answer to the problem of waste. Since 2024, productions that receive public support report their carbon footprint, which has pushed studios to count what they once ignored. Costumes are a reasonable place to begin. Keeping garments in circulation trims the footprint without reducing the enchantment that draws people to the work in the first place.
The founders tend to ethics with the same care they give to fabric. Costumes appear only after the release of a film or series. Tags name the character, not the actor, a quiet gesture that respects privacy while preserving the story. The result feels right. Anonymous, yet marked by history. Intimate, yet shared.
Beyond the standard sizes
There is, inevitably, a constraint. Wardrobes for screen work often cluster around a narrow range, especially in women’s sizes. Mélody refuses to let the shop become a club with a small door. She curates a parallel rack called the Mélococo Selection, her own vintage finds chosen with a stylist’s eye for line and mood. These pieces are not screen worn, but they carry the same sense of character and widen the circle for more bodies and more walks of life.
A growing phenomenon
The address has traveled fast by word of mouth. Locals drop in on lunch breaks. Tourists detour after the climb to Sacré-Cœur. Film lovers arrive on a mission. One woman came looking only for the T-shirt worn by Jonathan Cohen in an action comedy, and left radiant. Social posts help, of course, those short clips of red drapes, paper tags, and weekly drops, but the tone on the floor remains warm and unpretentious. The staff will tell you what scene a jacket survived and then let you decide if it is yours.
Ambition has already begun to look outward. Visitors ask for jackets from a certain vampire saga, for dresses from a suburban soap of another era. A future link with a series that has made a postcard of Paris would be almost too neat, which is why it may happen. Closer at hand, a children’s section is planned for autumn, because why should only adults get to try on a part.
Curtain up
Paris has never been shy about blurring art and life, costume and couture. La Loge keeps that line soft and inviting. On every hanger there is a story. In every mirror there is a small role waiting for you. You might walk in for a coat and walk out with a scene.
La Loge
17 Rue Condorcet, 75009 Paris
Métro Poissonnière line 7, Anvers line 2, Cadet line 7
Instagram at la.loge.store
I like secondhand clothes, especially the bright, playful pieces from the seventies and eighties. I love clothes and small items with humor, the kind that insist on their own personality. I have many memories of secondhand shops, but one in the Marais stands out. The place looked so unmotivated you wondered how it paid rent. People would bring in clothes in paper bags or cardboard boxes, and the woman at the counter would dump everything into a big bin without sorting it, then go right back to her magazine or her call. She wore vintage rock tees with real style, so I’m sure she loved secondhand too.
Since she barely noticed the customers, my friends and I used to go there, trying on tulip hats and dragonfly glasses until our stomachs hurt from laughing. Once I bought big white square sunglasses the kind Michel Polnareff might wear, a pair of bell-bottoms, and a fluffy feather shawl for about twenty euros, and I wore them to some party. My favorite find was a swim cap covered in flowers, but I never had the nerve to wear it. The designs and colors were so unique that “pop” didn’t quite cover it, and I felt a little envy for the easygoing era when people could walk around in clothes like that.
No matter how much you wash it, a vintage piece keeps the air of the time it lived through. I wish it could tell me what scenes it saw and what stories it holds. Maybe someone wore it to a student protest. Maybe it went to a concert by an artist who’s no longer with us.
These days in France most secondhand shopping happens online. I guess shops just can’t make the numbers work. Even so, I want to try things on in a store before I choose them, not to laugh at them but to see them properly.
Vintage chooses its wearer more than new clothes do. Sometimes a piece matches your taste but just won’t suit you, which is its own kind of fun. Sometimes something you never expected fits as if it were made for you. It feels like the previous owner is standing by the mirror, sizing up who should have it next.
That’s why I got excited the moment I heard about La Loge. These are clothes that waited to be chosen on set. Costumes have auditions too. Even one appearance is enough to count as a war story. I can’t help wondering what those pieces have been through.
I heard they even got costumes from the series I enjoyed, “Ça c’est Paris”. It aired last year with a lineup of popular actors, glamorous and very Paris. The title really does mean “This is Paris.” Monica Bellucci showed up as herself. The show hits lots of famous spots, so you feel like a tourist on your sofa, and you also get to see what Parisian women wear day to day. It’s like a grown-up Emily in Paris.
Normally, clothes worn by stars come with a premium and the price goes up. At this shop they treat them as secondhand, so they’re much cheaper than the original price. Still, if Emily in Paris costumes ever arrived, there would be a scramble. In France that show isn’t very popular and is often called stereotypical and too simple, so those pieces might be treated like ordinary secondhand. Even so, it’s big overseas, especially in the United States, so the shop could turn into a tourist stop. Fans already line up at the café where Emily supposedly drinks espresso which is actually a restaurant and at the bakery where she buys croissants. The lines are always long and the photos never stop. I only hope people don’t scoop up the clothes cheaply and flip them at auction.
If you pick an outfit to match your mood, suspense one day and romance the next, you might end up with a day that feels like the next episode of a film or a series.
