the epochal odyssey : vintage shopping passe?

I do about four loads of washing a week. That’s pretty awkward. Now you think I have some sort of problem, be it slightly neurotic or a case of over active sweat glands. Thankfully for me, neither of these are the issue when it comes to my over-exhausted laundry practices.
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When I was thirteen, I can quite confidently say that while most girls were dipping in and out of Supre, I was far more inclined to swoop through my mother’s closet on the hunt for my next outfit. I was like a creature of the night, skimming through David Lawrence, draping myself in Lisa Ho circa 1980s, revelling in all things Stitches and Dolina, I was completely lost to the commercial world and found in the dark depths of eras long gone. Of course my mother preferred I kept my sticky fingers off her finer garments, which made it all the more exciting. The fact that I was already sporting shoulder pads and high waisted jeans meant that my friends and other members of society thought I was a) stylish or b) a complete freak. I loved it.

When I look back now, I think what a fool. How stupid I was not to notice the initial stages of an addiction. As soon as I turned fourteen and was allowed to catch a bus alone, I visited every single op shop in my hometown, weekly. The store managers knew me by name and they knew what I liked. When I looked in the mirror at sixteen, I didn’t see a vintage aficionado, a person with a problem, I saw an amazing double–toned, 100% wool, Carla Zampatti Bat wing dress, all for eight dollars. I had disowned the mall by eighteen and by then it had become far more of a social fad. If I went on road trips up or down the coast I insisted we stop at every Red Cross, St Vincent de Pauls, Smith Family or any other store in sight that presented some type of epochal opportunity. I knew that stores in small country towns would have far better and cheaper finds. The fact that I could dwell in an entire towns history in one small store was just a bonus.

I was a complete enthusiast; the euphoria from finding unique pieces, rummaging through a celebration of colours, lost dates, forgotten memories, and quality fabrics, was like no other. I liked looking different to everyone else. I liked that my jene se quois was a little bit skewed to the left. But in saying that, I liked that some people approved of what I wore, that they complimented my little oddities, which is a contradiction in itself considering my intense desire to aesthetically oppose the masses. I continually strived to be diverse but longed for that small sense of public endorsement. Today, I’ve just come to accept that clothing is nothing more than something to keep you warm and a little less naked. That’s a lie, it’s what I say to everyone else, while on the inside I’m running around screaming about the structured Parisian cream waistcoat I just found before you did, which makes me pretty cool because I look cool but I don’t even care, not a bit.

Really, it’s the homogeny of our society that insists on this type of aesthetic exploration. I completely embrace those that demonstrate their identity through their own personal style, be it clothes, hair or make-up. Through this reflection, I don’t see myself really having a problem. I see myself as an individual, trying to highlight the fact that I am different, unique, and my avenue is my man-made skin. I sport pieces that represent me as a person, which is funny because all my clothes were previously owned by someone else. We all see things in different lights. Someone else might write a poem because they are sad, I might wear an oversized men’s jumper and Buckhunter’s cap because maybe I feel a little blue too. Others may find solace in art, sport or music. We are all different, all labeled with our own inimitable genetic code that can never be taken from us.

Bringing me to the point that amidst a world of mass production and advertising, vintage shopping is on a serious incline – there are people out there that are willing to buy their image. Now when I walk through an op-shop, (depending upon location) I might just mistake it for a department store, as with increased demand comes higher prices. But is it really fair? It’s true that some people buy clothes at these stores and then sell them for ten times the price. It’s also true that some people buy clothes from these stores just to keep them warm at night.

We need to remember that although these products are fantastic, they are indeed second hand, recycled, and should be treated as such. Store managers have recognized their own economic viability and are responding in a business like manner. Because of our spending patterns, there will be those less fortunate possibly going without a warm jacket for the winter. Vintage is mainstreaming. It’s cool to be quirky and weird, and there’s not much you can do to reverse a trend once it’s set. I’m okay with that because my style will always be my own, it can be copied but never stolen. I

’m not okay with charitable organisations charging eighty dollars for a jacket with stains and missing buttons. I like my op-shops to be run by 65-year-old women that have more than one cat, not twenty something’s that have more than one car. It’s sad, just like 5 cent coins will never come back, two-dollar dresses from the 70s won’t either. When market value goes up, it very rarely comes back down and hence, destroys all the fun and necessity of the situation, forcing me to really hone my hunt and gather skills. Really, the best thing we can do is try to share it all around.

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Now it’s a bit uncomfortable again. “This girl thinks she’s the fashion equivalent of Hemmingway”, “Why is she so on herself”, is what you’re thinking.
I am so offended you would think that, by the way. This is merely the train of thought that somehow mutates itself together when I’m doing my fourth load of washing for the week. Washing because I need somewhere to put my clothes other than the floor. Washing and wishing that someone would take some of these clothes off my hands because, over the years of collecting, there is only so many places you can store them. Word to the wise, beneath the kitchen sink is not an appropriate place to amass cashmere sweaters.

So let me know if you have some space in your drawer, my water and electricity bills are putting craters in my bank account. If you don’t take it, I’ll just have to give it back to where it came from and I don’t want them selling it for triple the amount I paid for it.

– Brittany Waller