On the surface, thrifting is a simple transaction: a dress exchanged for dollars, a jacket adopted from obscurity into rotation. But for NYC-based stylist and set designer Liana Kornitzer, the founder and creative force behind the vintage curation platform Lianaland, thrifting is far more than retail. It’s travel. It’s intimacy. It’s community. And above all, it’s storytelling.

To speak with Liana—especially across the digital threshold of a Zoom call—is to be drawn into a world entirely of her own making. Even from the static square of her webcam, her kitchen is a sensory playground: pastel pink chairs, vintage blue grout running like a secret code between white ceramic tiles, and a countertop that blooms with colorful, mismatched kitchen appliances that look more Wes Anderson than West Elm. “I’m kind of over it,” she laughs, already considering a reinvention. But for an outsider, the space is a perfect portal into her ethos—cheerful, curious, nostalgic, layered.

The World as a Wardrobe

Liana is a collector not just of clothes, but of moments. Her curated pieces are tied to cities, to market stalls, to conversations with strangers and artisans alike. “Everything I’m wearing right now is French,” she says, lifting a hand to indicate her flowing patterned blouse, its collar delicately frayed with time. “But I source in Italy too. Milan, Rome, sometimes even smaller places. And what I love most isn’t the pieces, necessarily—it’s the people I meet while finding them.”

Her practice extends beyond simple acquisition. She doesn’t merely “shop” at thrift markets in Paris or Florence—she listens. To fabric. To vendors. To the rhythm of the place. Each market has its own logic, she explains. “Paris is more pattern-heavy, lots of historic prints, especially in the stalls along Rue des Rosiers. You find things there that feel like they were left behind on purpose. Meanwhile, in Italy, you’ll get more linen. Earth tones. Timeless cuts. It’s like shopping someone’s soul.”

Liana calls this process “geographic curating”—a phrase that describes her intuitive method of gathering items by region, color palette, and story. Her pieces don’t match—they belong.

The Marketplace as Muse

Liana’s design language is not born from runways or glossy magazines, but rather from cobblestones and castoffs. She moves through open-air markets like a director on set, eyes darting between textures, knowing that what others miss might be the next anchor of an editorial spread. “The thrill isn’t in finding a ‘brand’ item,” she says, “It’s in finding something that shouldn’t exist anymore—and giving it another beginning.”

She recalls one such moment in the back stalls of Milan’s Mercatone dell’Antiquariato. “There was this woman selling clothing that had belonged to opera performers,” she tells me, her tone shifting into awe. “She had this crushed velvet cape with hand-stitched embroidery on the hem—it had dust on it like it had just come off stage. And she told me it hadn’t been touched since the ’80s.” That cape became the centerpiece of a Lianaland shoot—styled with a pair of ripped jeans and a lace camisole, completely reinvented.

Each find sparks a new idea, often beginning with a tactile sensation. “Sometimes I’ll just touch a piece and feel this jolt,” she says. “It sounds weird, but I think we underestimate how much fabric carries energy.”

Building Lianaland

Founded in 2019, Lianaland began as a private archive, a way for Liana to store and share her vintage discoveries with close collaborators and stylists. But what started as a Dropbox folder quickly grew into a living catalog. Today, it functions as an evolving boutique-slash-editorial concept. “It’s not really a store in the traditional sense,” she clarifies. “It’s more like an ongoing mood board. Some things are for sale, some aren’t. Some are just there to inspire.”

And inspire it does. The Lianaland platform—part Instagram page, part digital zine, part archive—drips with color, nostalgia, and an unmistakable sense of play. In one frame, a ’60s floral shift dress is styled with cowboy boots and a toy carousel. In another, a Y2K metallic shrug is thrown over a ballet leotard, modeled in front of a faux suburban house façade.

There’s a distinct lack of polish in these images that feels intentional. “I’m allergic to perfection,” Liana says. “I want things to feel real, like they belong in your closet and in a fantasy all at once.”

Sustainability in Practice, Not Preaching

Unlike many fashion professionals, Liana rarely uses the word sustainable as a descriptor. But everything she does—sourcing secondhand, repurposing older items, working with small markets instead of large suppliers—is sustainability in motion. “I don’t want to guilt people,” she explains. “I just want them to fall in love with something that’s already lived.”

She also rejects the idea that buying vintage is always more ethical. “There’s a lot of classism baked into how we talk about thrifting,” she notes. “Some people shop vintage out of necessity, not aesthetics. I never want Lianaland to make anyone feel excluded.” For her, the conversation is less about being “eco” and more about being intentional. “If I’m bringing a piece into someone’s life, it has to matter. It has to mean something. Otherwise, it’s just clutter.”

The Role of Community

What binds Lianaland together—beyond the garments and styling—is the community around it. Liana describes her work as a collaborative art practice, involving makeup artists, young photographers, emerging models, and friends who lend their spaces and stories. “I like working with people who aren’t traditionally ‘fashion,’” she says. “I want real skin. Real weirdness. Real joy.”

Many of her shoots are staged in borrowed apartments, rooftops, corner bodegas, and laundromats. Her collaborators aren’t cast—they’re found. “Most of the people I work with, I met through other projects or on Instagram. Some of them were clients. Others were just people I admired from afar.”

She compares her process to forming a band. “Everyone plays their part, but the energy is shared. That’s what makes it work.”

An Eye Toward the Future

When asked about what’s next, Liana is characteristically evasive—in a dreamy, optimistic way. “I think I want to start doing short films,” she muses. “Nothing too serious. Just stories built around outfits. Like little visual poems.” She envisions small screenings in nontraditional spaces: friends’ backyards, warehouse galleries, community centers.

She also hopes to spend more time abroad—not just in Paris and Milan, but places like Tbilisi, Oaxaca, and Lisbon. “There’s vintage culture everywhere,” she says. “You just have to listen for it.”

The Art of Thrifting

For Liana, thrifting isn’t just a skill—it’s an act of emotional intelligence. “You have to walk slowly,” she says. “You have to be willing to be wrong. Sometimes a piece looks ugly until you touch it. Sometimes you miss something and then it finds you later. That’s the magic.”

Her advice for new thrifters? “Forget what’s trending. Touch everything. Ask questions. And always carry cash.” But more importantly, “Don’t just look for things—look for stories.”

 

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