secondhand stories.......

A few weeks ago I took myself on an impromptu op shop dash on my lunch break. It was a risk, obviously, because as a general rule op-shopping cannot be rushed. Time is perhaps one of the most important factors when scoring vintage radness. Alas, I gave myself a scant forty-five minutes and I managed to scoop up some serious vintage denim. When I returned to work, I crowed happily to everyone and anyone who would listen - and even those who wouldn’t - about my finds. I expected surprise, jealousy, congratulations, etc. etc. But from one workmate I got that tired line that springs forth from all virgin thrifters - ‘Why would you want to wear something secondhand?’

I've never felt the need to examine my love for a thrifted find. Sure, a trip to the op shop can yield volumes of amazingness at prices that will make your bank balance sing. And the hunt for the perfect vintage silk shirt or worn out denim is so much more fun than hitting select size and place order. But those reasons do not constitute all the reasons why I love op-shopping.

I love a good story. As is no doubt obvious from a mere cursory glance around here, I'm a voracious consumer of words in the guise of stories, and often in the guise of dictionaries - I'm not scared to admit a fondess for the Oxford's and Merriman's of the world - but stories are my truest love. And are the greatest reason for my fondness for something that has lived, perhaps longer than me, but lived nonetheless.

Every thrifted, op-shopped, vintage piece I own I imagine has a back story worthy of telling. The places they have been, the people they've been worn by, the events they've been a part of.

Take these faded black Levis, that were purchased as jeans and chopped unceremoniously by me into the frayed shorts they are now. They were found in the mens department and every time I wear them I imagine who owned them before me.

I imagine an ageing musician, who spent the best part of the seventies and eighties travelling up and down the east coast of Australia playing gigs in pubs and bars and the odd RSL. His trusty black Levis a constant companion, a lucky charm. Before every gig, he slip them on with a pair of weathered black leather boots, the kind with deep creases across the top and soles worn flat from years of loving use.

He'd play his set, the sound of his guitar reverberating throughout his body and into his denim. The music becoming woven with the dyed cotton fibre. His sweat would roll down his body, and hit the waistband of his Levis, soaking into the fabric and discolouring the patch of leather that signalled their American heritage.

I imagine him older, spending his days in a old weatherboard home, late night gigs far behind him. His belly grown wide and full in the past few decades, his Levis no longer fit. But they stay, tucked away in the back of the closet. A memory, a visual reminder of the life he lived.

I imagine his family, coming to stay one Christmas. Overwhelming him with love and noise and questions. I imagine his children taking to his closets with the somewhat misguided desire to help him. I imagine them making a pile of clothes to donate. Things the musician no longer needs. I imagine them pulling out the black Levis, now faded to the perfect grey black. I imagine them throwing them into the donate pile and them same Levis somehow finding their way to the op-shop that I visited on my lunch break.

Now, every time I wear them, I think of that old musician. A figment of my imagination, no doubt, but a what a wonderful figment. That old musician may not know it, or perhaps he does, but I'll continue the story of those Levis. I'll take them places, and make them a part of memories and adventures. I'll not let their story fade, I'll not let his story fade. That alone is reason enough to wear something secondhand.

kb xx

is this fate?........

Shirt: Vintage Yves Saint Laurent / Leather Skirt: Vintage / Shoes: Converse

I have this weird notion of fate when it comes to my sartorial choices.

Weird because I'm loathe to leave anything else in my life up to the whims of something so elusive, so devoid of concrete evidence of it's existence. Something that contradicts every logical thought that runs through my mind. Fate. What the hell is fate?   

But, like I can't help but feel strongly about tweed, I can't help but feel strongly about fate. Of the sartorial kind that is.

Because of this strength of feeling, I've been known to leave something behind, as a way of testing the very fate I believe so wholeheartedly in. I did it last week.

I fell upon a denim shirt. A men's one, (of course), with a yoke and collar of a tan suede. Sigh. And on sale. And I walked away. In hindsight, total dick move. But my supposition that if I'm supposed to have it I'll have it, gives me this kind of bravado.

Yes, I can walk away from perhaps the most important denim shirt of my life, (is that even a thing, can you have an important denim shirt, rhetorical question because the answer is yes), and know that if it's supposed to join the growing pile of shirts already in my life, it will.

It wasn't. I went back and it was gone.

At this point, without my ridiculous belief that fate rules my wardrobe, I'd be curled up in a corner somewhere sobbing.

I mean, suede yoke people, suede!

But I'm not. Because, you know, fate.

Luckily fate was on my side when I scored this (Y)SL shirt and vintage leather mini. They were, obviously, meant to be. 

xx

higher and higher baby.......

Shirt: Cotton On (Mens) / Jeans: Vintage Lee / Shoes: Wittner / Sunglasses: ASOS

I've never been a huge fan of high waisted anything. Putting emphasis on my ass and the lower half of my abdomen (which rises and falls throughout the course of the day in opposition to the sun, am I right ladies?) just never melded with my preconceived ideas of radness.

But like all great and wonderful things, it only takes one.

While on a thrifting adventure in search of old school mens denim to customise the hell out of I happened to stumble upon these high waisted Lee jeans, circa no idea, and now I'm hooked.

If I told you that I'd been wearing them basically every day for the past week, would you believe me? Surely those crease marks can attest to my infatuation? Thank god the internet is not equipped with a sense of smell just yet.

Coincidentally the two other pairs of denim I scored that fateful day are also high waisted.

So now the questions is, does this mark the end of my slung at the hip denim phase? Am I all about the Mum jeans, ass emphasis and FUPA?

Perhaps all that Man Repeller reading has finally sunk in.

Hell if I know. But if you find any vintage high waisted Lee denim, preferably from man land, can you please let me know. Seriously. Not kidding.

xx

going hawaiian.......

Ok, real talk. I'm having a moment with hawaiian shirts right now. In my mind, every single look I conjure could be made infinitely better with the inclusion of a brightly coloured shirt. A shirt featuring, among other things, palm trees and blue skies and flowers; lots and lots of flowers.

This streetstyle shot of Yasmin Sewell, while fabulous, only serves to legitmise my current infatuation. Though in the interests of complete transparency, I must admit this shot is from a few seasons ago. Using fashion insiders to prop up our seemingly nonsensical sartorial desires is nothing new. But trawling through the archives to find some hawaiian evidence to solidify my argument borders on ridiculous surely?

Because here's the thing, my growing love of the flamboyant shirts came before the inspirational streetstyle shot. This one brewed in my grey matter and filtered from the top down, until I found myself searching for 'hawaiian shirt' in eBay, ASOS, Topshop, Google and every other search engine I could find.

Which got me wondering. With our sartorial choices seemingly so influenced by the magazines we read, the blogs we follow and the racks of garments in those fast fashion stores we all frequent, is there any room left in our overflowing minds to dream up something different? 

And when you do actually get that dream happening, how do you translate that to a look, especially when your dream just ain't on trend?

I, of course, resorted to the fertile grounds of both eBay and op shops to create this mix of print and denim. Sometimes you just can't leave your fate to the fashion gods of New York, London, Paris and Milan. Sometimes you have to take control of that shit yourself. 

Because fash-un isn't found only inside the minimalist glass doors of Zara or the online powerhouses of Net-A-Porter. It's found in my vintage hawaiian shirt (score) and my vintage customised Levi's (double score) and, you know, it's found in the sky and stuff like Coco said.

xx

stories and memories.......

Today while doing my usual Bloglovin check, I read a post on Style by Kling about a new 

Isabel Marant watch. It’s based on a watch that was owned by Marant’s father, 

one that she still wears now, ten years after his passing.

It got me thinking about those pieces in our wardrobes that have stories, that bring back memories, 

that are more then just a dress or a pair of shoes or in Marant’s case a watch.

I have a few of those things in my wardrobe, and whenever I wear them or even just pull them out, 

I can feel that memory, I can imagine where they’ve been.

The bridesmaid dress I wore to my brother’s wedding last year, very happy memories!!

My vintage red heels, whenever I pull them out, I like to imagine who bought them,

why they did and where the shoes have been!!

A necklace handed down from my great grandmother is quite sentimental, 

whenever I wear it I always think of her and of my family. 

I take it away with me when I travel, so a little piece of my family comes with me.

I’m sure I’ll collect more of these pieces and I look forward to doing so,

 and having a wardrobe full of stories and memories!!

Do you have any pieces like this in your wardrobe??

xx