Mallstalgia: Escaping into Nostalgia for North American Malls of the 1980s
How a collection of found photographs became a source of reflection, escapism, and inspiration in the midst of a global pandemic
As colorful 35mm prints began to surface through layers of early 20th century black and white photos, I found myself overwhelmed by the sensation that I was staring into images harvested directly from my childhood memory. It was March 2018 and Pauline’s Antiques was liquidating. An hours-long excavation through several plastic bins slowly revealed hundreds of visual merchandising photographs from the 1980s. Many depicted North American department store interiors, mannequins dressed in the latest fashions of the time, and carefully staged home décor vignettes. I had come in search of Victorian cabinet cards, but instead left with my unexpected find from the much more recent past.
Over the next two years, I would occasionally bring out the collection at dinner parties, but I realized that these photographs deserved a wider audience come March 2020. These glimpses of 1980s North American mall culture have never been more poignant as both malls and department stores become increasingly rare; their demise further exacerbated by pandemic-necessitated social distancing measures and the corresponding Chernobyl-like economic implosion. The nostalgia evoked by the images vacillates between comfort and sadness, a reminder of lives and ways of life past.
Why are these photos so affecting? What is their appeal? And who was behind the camera? To share and explore the stories behind the snapshots, I launched Mallstalgia.
Museum of Consumption: The Collection
The Mallstalgia collection is named from a portmanteau (that I cannot claim to have coined) combining “mall” and “nostalgia.” Although most of the photos are from department stores within malls, those stores are an inextricable component of the greater nostalgia for malls and the 1980s. Some of those shot with the camera’s flash appear shockingly harsh, but a warm orange tone permeates most. Illumination from a combination of heat-producing track lighting and diffused fluorescents creates a dusky, dream-like effect. Some of the photos are more gorgeously artistic than the displays themselves.
The subject matter, the beauty, the sometimes overwrought and dated styling give this collection its charm. The joy of personal memory or aesthetic excitement is elicited alongside curiosity and sentimentality. Anticipating that others would experience variants of the same nostalgia, I began to publish the photos. Always with light-hearted captions or notes highlighting interesting features in lieu of historically accurate data. Only a handful of the images contain identifiable branding or locations. Some photos, luckily, reveal faded inscriptions on their back sides. Between those clues and subsequent research, I have been able to identify most of the locations.
The long-gone Bullock’s at Vallco Mall in Cupertino, and the Bullock’s at Oakridge Mall in San Jose (now Westfield Oakridge) are heavily featured. Other retailers include now-extinct Alexia boutiques (La Jolla and other locations), Jones (Burlingame, Palo Alto), and even shops in Texas and Florida. Once I started my research, I was filled with regret for not having done so sooner, if only to have arrived at the idea to visit the nearby structures before the most recent, irreversible changes occurred.
The 58-acre Vallco mall was located near the heart of California’s Silicon Valley, Cupertino. One of its most surprising characteristics was a café atop an enclosed bridge spanning the Wolfe Road thoroughfare. Vallco went through a slow, languorous dismantling and was recently demolished to make way for new development. Like many other North American malls, Vallco was not immune to market conditions (and also perhaps bleeding customers to top-tier malls in close proximity). The Bullock’s itself was transformed to an Emporium before living out its final decades as a Macy’s.
The (Westfield) Oakridge Bullock’s became a Nordstrom, and then a Sears, all three successively shuttering. Currently, that portion of the Oakridge structure is being converted to house multiple retailers rather than reserve the space for another unpredictable anchor. Vallco, reduced to rubble, and the original Oakridge Bullock’s space renovated several times over, there is little left to compare with the interiors visible in the photos. These anachronistic environments no longer exist. That is the implicit punctum in these photos. Gazing at vivid and seemingly frivolous spectacles from the thriving consumer 1980s engenders anticipation or knowledge that not only have these scenes evaporated, they may well have been destroyed. The muted subtext is one of loss.
Still, there is joy to be found in these images. The aesthetics and fashions resonate with Mallstalgia followers. Jokes and memories are often contributed. Those in the know have even identified the specific make and models of some mannequins. Receiving feedback like this statement by @brandonmieske truly validates the choice to share the content.
Just when I thought all hope was lost, along came @mallstalgia and transported me back to my happy place/time. The mall was a place to dream ☁️
Although the origins of the photos remain unknown, a friend and longtime visual manager advised that they had likely come from a portfolio. While poring over the collection, I was thrilled to discover that reflective surfaces had, at times, inadvertently captured the photographer, even if a face was always obscured. However, one photo stood out.
First, I absorbed the bright, beachy window display. Then, as I looked closer, between surfboards, mannequins, busy prints, and questionable props… An actual human. The photographer’s cropped auburn hair immediately recognizable from other pictures, but this time, also a proud, smiling face.
The only hint for a name is a note on the back of another photo, “designed by Therese Hauber, Oa. Fall ‘84.” It is unclear whether that is the name of the photographer or merely an attribution. I was able to find regional contacts for siblings of an individual by that name but outreach has not procured responses. I welcome readers to share any non-sensitive information that could aid in determining an identity. Possessing another’s photos feels very personal. A sense of affinity for the photographer has developed as has the desire to know this story and extend gratitude.
The photographer is one of many stories contained in these photos. The collection further invokes volumes on precarity, on time and space, on the American way, and subjects beyond. With hindsight, history may be viewed through a dark lens, but the past can also inspire. There is so much more here than future meme fodder.
The Mall as Niche Interest
Independently active, self-appointed archivists share responsibility for the proliferation of cultural artifacts across the Internet, resurfacing and publishing content heretofore never digitized (copyright be damned). As someone who identifies as “librarian,” I recognized that the time capsule quality of the imagery in the photographs was compelling enough to make the acquisition and (at least informally) archive. As a content professional, I had to question who the audience would be. But I already knew.
There are many loosely-connected communities for whom such imagery resonates. If Mallstalgia was expressed in a Venn diagram, it would be at the center of the following commingled interests: retail, vintage fashion, retro architecture and décor, 80s nostalgia, dead malls, and even ruin porn.
In the early 2010s, Michael Galinsky’s 1989 photos of American mall life arrived online and went viral. Subsequently, two book editions containing the collection were published and quickly sold out. Popular blogs and social media accounts that focus on or strongly feature retro mall visuals like Pleasant Family Shopping or The 80s Interior command substantial followings.
Images of the mall experience during its peak decade(s) are wistful reminders of the era. Comparatively, over the first twenty years of the current century, we have ineluctably witnessed the death of malls, nearing the pinnacle of the retail apocalypse. Addressing such fast-paced change and decline, “dead malls” has grown as an identifying term in discourse, proportionate to the rate of mall and retailer closures, over the last several decades. Not just a business phenomenon, dead malls are a special interest indulged by photographers and documentarians alike. Indeed, a dead mall Ted Talk exists.
Malls do not simply shutter overnight, they slowly succumb once key anchors evacuate and remaining tenants follow suit. Increasingly, a stroll through the typical American mall is a funereal procession along a gallery of darkened, emptied storefronts. There is little to consume and few people to encounter. Unless, of course, you count the ghosts of millions of jobs lost.
The emptiness of a dying mall contrasts sharply with the social space it once was. Bustling food courts, warm neon lights, the cacophony of conversation against a faint muzak soundtrack… Now, the act of basking in the vacant spaciousness, the quietude, and even the sadness of the dead mall environment is a sort of meditation. A meditation on the societal shifts and economic impacts marking the highs and lows of the booms and recessions over the past four decades. While some find pleasure in admiring the vestiges of signature design traits from the 1980s and 90s in these spaces, others have a predilection for decay — seeking out former indoor shopping structures once they have been abandoned and/or are in an advanced state of disrepair.
The main draw for Mallstalgia is a glimpse into the once lively interiors and illuminated window displays of now-dilapidated or unrecognizable stores. Gazing into the photos inspires a subtly doomed curiosity. Do these structures still stand? Sometimes the answer is no. Sometimes, yes. But if still intact, perhaps vacant or now serving a completely different function (housing among the best-case scenarios, Amazon fulfillment centers among the most inevitable). The question comes with a perverse thrill from the shock of comparing such vibrant settings in the Mallstalgia photos with the bleak scenes prevalent today. Nostalgia for malls is symptomatic of the inescapable, metastasizing retail apocalypse — its causes and its consequences.
Nostalgia: DIY Time Travel
Nostalgia is a surge of bittersweet longing for an idealized past. Unquestionably, the Mallstalgia photos produce nostalgia. Pre-COVID-19 reality was harsh enough, but within the confines of lockdowns, quarantines, and social distancing, time-travel mocks us as the most accessible option to evade the devastating present. A global pandemic continues to rage, racism remains prevalent, economic inequality is peaking, and there is no shortage of universal horror to address on a daily basis. Even for many of those privileged enough to wish for a future of past comforts, the nearest escape is within.
Nostalgia is subjective. Experiences like those depicted in the Mallstalgia photos differed based on respective privileges. Not every household had the same spending power, apparel sizing was even more limited, and gender binarism heavily reinforced. While the 1980s have been known as the decade of greed, the wealth gap began to widen again in the age of Reaganomics. The affect on BIPOC communities was disproportionately harsh, in-line with socio-economic inequalities that persist in 2020. While not limited to the 1980s, racial profiling of shoppers is well documented, and examining the eerily detailed mannequins featured in many of the Mallstalgia photos reveal none modeled after POC. Memories are defined by these iniquities for many, attesting to a painful aspect of retrospection.
Across millions of diverse shoppers, retail workers, facilities staff, and others occupying that time and space, personal experiences influence whether 1980s mall-based fantasies are soothing or upsetting. However, while nostalgia may capitalize on unfounded idealizations of the past, those who do find comfort and pleasure in such reveries may not be incorrectly romanticizing some facets of times gone by. Compared with the immediate present, a sense of loss endures.
In the Mallstalgia photos, an abundance of garments can be seen crowded on racks or draped on uncannily realistic mannequins. Carefully crafted displays and strategic lighting meant to compel purchases continue to pique interest even in twice-removed photographic form. This context allows the viewer to admire, reminisce, and/or imagine how it would feel to step into that environment, and, incidentally, that moment in time. The longing is the desire for the experience; to be present in that time and space. To stroll, browse, touch, smell, hear, and possess the material goods on display while consuming the imagery itself. Those sensations may carry more appeal than the actual content.
Our former selves — elder millennials, gen Xers, boomers, and beyond — we were there. These photos act as surrogates for relatable memories. But they also resonate with younger generations that did not experience peak American mall culture first-hand. Approximately 40% of Mallstalgia’s audience is formed from younger millennials and older gen Zers pursuing the titillations induced by what is essentially fauxstalgia or anemoia — nostalgia for a time or times beyond the confines of personal memory and experience. That statement is delivered with no derision. Their enthusiasm for 1980s aesthetics, music, and even modes of living, contribute to the collective simulacra of 1980s nostalgia that many of us enjoy.
The influences of the decade continuously resurface in popular culture. 1980s music remains ubiquitous while hauntological genres (vaporwave, mallwave) dedicated to 1980s (and a little 1990s) nostalgia have more recently arrived. In June, Pitchfork published a piece on contemporary post-punkers Molchat Doma in which a 19-year-old listener likened their music to “being alone in a shopping mall, but you’re almost comforted by the fact that you’re alone in it.” Even where musicians may not have deliberately referenced or aspire to create mall-like atmospheres with sound, listeners are finding it. This sensory aid for escape is essential to its value.
While the experience of 1980s mall-going is not reproducible, the products from that era remain consumable. Lest I neglect to acknowledge the impact of ecommerce on the conditions leading to a transformed retail landscape, one can easily find vintage or vintage-inspired garments from an array of online retailers. Fetishized retro electronics and dated-yet-endearing home décor is readily available and increasingly sought. Piece-by-piece, surroundings can be curated and oneself adorned in order to embody and reproduce the enchantments of nostalgia.
The fashions prominently featured in the Mallstalgia photos portray many popular North American looks from the decade. Some covetable, some frumpy, some laughable, and most complicated. 1980s fashion was exciting, but maybe a little exhausting. So much layering, cuffing, scrunching, tucking, tying, and accessorizing. A practice in excess, but also self-expression. The styles of the 1980s were so distinct and influential that many elements have endured. Indeed, a massive resurgence in key trends from the era (including and especially shoulder pads and neon colors) was observed across 2020 runways.
These styles will be donned by those seeking the latest silhouettes and palettes, but also by those for whom they hold a taste of nostalgia. Whether shopping contemporary or vintage, wearing these trends is a way of “retreating to the very things that stir up memories of better times.” Indulging in the highly personalized and creative aspects of 1980s fashion could be worth the effort — perhaps an antidote to a few decades of athletic gear masquerading as clothing.
The Mallstalgia images partially reconstruct the histories of the objects therein. Some objects may ring familiar. Perhaps an identical bottle of perfume was visible in a medicine cabinet growing up. Maybe a family member wore a similar dress. The photographs reveal from whence these items came. But only from the point at which they were displayed to the consumer. These merchandising presentations are sanitized of any evidence of a capitalism-driven trend that would eventually decimate American manufacturing jobs in pursuit of cheaper, exploited labor along import-based supply chains. Here, products are enticingly displayed in their penultimate, idealized location… The store.
Enchantment and Mourning
1986 saw the release of True Stories. Talking Heads front person David Byrne is credited with the bulk of its creative vision and stars as a visible narrator. In one segment titled “Shopping is a Feeling,” the camera guides the viewer through a mall interior while Byrne’s character reflects on its cultural significance.
The shopping mall has replaced the town square as the center of many American cities. Shopping itself has become the activity that brings people together. In here, music is always playing. What time is it? No time to look back.
The fabled malls of the past provided space to roam, socialize, fantasize, and consume. Space to commune with friends or unwind by visiting various cosmetics counters after promptly leaving a 9–5 job. If you lived in a thriving suburb in the 1980s, modern obstacles like two-hour commutes and always-on connectivity wouldn’t interfere with such leisure. Or, maybe shopping excursions were a weekend activity. Bring the whole family! In these spaces, wedding presents were bought and expertly gift-wrapped, prom dresses procured, worn-out shoes replaced, and video game high scores achieved. Almost everything we do online now, as consumers, we did there, then.
If the Mallstalgia photos relay anything, it is that malls and department stores offered a fully immersive experience — outside of the home and away from a screen. The artistry of the displays at times comparable to museum installations. Stores performed the intellectual labor of imagination for the shopper by way of visual merchandising: mannequins carefully styled, dining sets portraying a wealth of serving suggestions; all in an attractive, three-dimensional space. However materialistic, the beauty was inspirational and aspirational. The stimuli, enriching. These environments were designed to produce longing and engage visitors.
Such retail practices continue today, but as more department stores across the United States declare bankruptcy, the physical shopping experiences available to us become increasingly divided between high-priced boutiques, skeletally-staffed fast fashion retailers, and glorified warehouses. We have neglected and are now deprived of grand spaces. The communal aspect barely an afterthought. But does anyone even have the time to shop or socialize anymore?
For the incredible convenience afforded by ecommerce and overnight delivery, have we sacrificed too much? While the structures that moved commerce to its new cloud-based realm help a large portion of the public socially distance, that may be because they were already contributing to social isolation. COVID-19 is the future we prepared for, but is it the one we want?
Some malls were still thriving at the beginning of 2020, but are now a liability. Indoor retail, although considered low risk (with consistent mask-wearing, social distancing measures, and adequate sanitation) in the advent of COVID-19, cannot easily draw and enchant visitors under such circumstances. Workers are terrified.
Lockdowns and layoffs resulted in rapid decreases in spending nationwide, and despite news of recent economic rebounds, a 10%+ drop in retail sales is projected for 2020. The retail apocalypse is moving at breakneck speed as more businesses become non-viable in these conditions. The human toll is a record surge in unemployment which, perhaps, didn’t need to happen. Yet the pandemic and its effects are not the sole source of deteriorating consumer confidence.
Since the 1980s, wages have predominantly stagnated and, in some cases, reversed, for the majority of Americans. Consumers are mourning a time during which home ownership was much more attainable and medical bankruptcy didn’t seem like an inevitability. But consumers are also workers and now workers must additionally mourn their job losses while they fight for survival and any semblance of a quality of life.
It is no wonder that any place but here is where most would rather be. Very real health threats, closed borders, and financial obstacles affect prospects for escape. However, nostalgia can offer an alternative to travel in the pursuit of joy and calm. There is comfort and exhilaration to be found in our imaginations if we allow it. Imagination is free; literally and figuratively. In fact, the Mallstalgia photos have inspired a personal favorite 1980s mall fantasy.
It is early evening on a weeknight in late October, 1986. A sophisticated and graceful 17-year-old version of myself has just departed from a few close friends after meeting in the mall food court to sip Orange Julius signature beverages. I pass all manner of people and shops as I saunter toward a favorite department store.
Once I enter the store, the smell of perfume intensifies and I hear “Things Can Only Get Better” by Howard Jones playing at an unobtrusive volume. I browse the Juniors section, reaching for pencil skirts and intarsia sweaters in shades of green and black. I don’t look at the price tags because I don’t need to, but I will be prudent when the time comes to buy.
A polite, professional, and sincerely cheerful sales associate helps me at the register, gracefully wrapping my chosen garments in tissue paper. When the associate hands me a thin-handled paper bag containing my purchase, it is a feeling akin to receiving a gift. Excited about my new outfit, I happily walk to my car.
I drive home to a pastel-colored, two-story house on a quiet, manicured, tree-lined street. A warm meal prepared by loving hands is waiting for me. After a pleasant family dinner, I head upstairs to my room. There, I try on my new outfit, leaving the tags on to prolong the sensation of newness, and call my closest friend (even though we were together in the food court only a few hours prior). We talk about the exciting things that happened at the mall — who we saw, what we purchased — and discuss what to wear to school the next day.
I say “goodnight,” hang up, and then take a shower that feels like a warm hug. With my damp hair under a fluffy towel, and now comfortable in an oversized t-shirt and scrunchy socks, I dance to music playing on my alarm clock radio which is tuned to the local college station. Content and prepared for slumber, I sink into cool sheets on a soft bed with no less than six ruffled pillows embracing me.
In this purely fictional scene, the American way is completely sanitized. There are no pained characters. Every imagined individual enjoys the same comforts. Sweatshops don’t exist. People are respected and respectful. Violence is impossible. A stretch anywhere, at any time, but perhaps it is beneficial to dream. To question our ideals. As we move past the pandemic and begin to reclaim space and socialize freely, how do we want this new reality to look? Perhaps those nostalgic daydreams visualize a better future. Long not for the past, but for a present that has learned from its own history.
To see the collection as it grows, follow @Mallstalgia on Instagram.
