The romance of certain old clothes
Balancing sustainability, utility and joy in a wardrobe
To me, the ultimate image of sophistication has always been a woman walking down a tree-lined city street toward her cozy apartment, clothed in an outfit that seems effortless but perfectly tailored, carrying a small paper bag from an eclectic local grocer. This year, after running an errand at FraLi Gourmet for my unorthodox Thanksgiving meal, I realized that in strutting home down Bull Street, I was finally embodying the cosmopolitan characters I had envied for years.
Unfortunately, I’m not an heiress whose full-time job is to flit around different cafes and art galleries and taste-make, but in the glowing Savannah autumn, I felt entirely comfortable in my skin and surroundings. This feeling of belonging is key to my “cool girl” aspirations. I was wearing what might as well be my only pair of jeans at the moment, a high-waisted, extensively pre-ripped style from American Eagle. Underneath was a basic white T-shirt from Talbots, and over that, an oversized, gray American Eagle sweater thrifted from the Bargain Center on Bull Street.
On its own, a very basic, comfortable outfit. But the pièce de résistance, the sumptuous magic ingredient, was a thrifted Adler Collection leather jacket I’ve owned since I was 14. It was a new arrival one day, years ago, at the thrift shop I frequented in my hometown. The owner caressed it at the register. “Like butter,” she sighed. It fit like it was made for me, and I was in the depths of my Buffy the Vampire fandom, so of course I had to have a chic, black leather blazer.
The problem was, the jacket made no sense for me then. The bulk of my wardrobe was hippie, bohemian skirts and colorful tunics and spaghetti straps. The cool leather clashed with the warm cottons and patterns. Besides the aesthetic issue, it was a light jacket in terms of thermal power, and there was only a short time I could wear it in the New England fall. The window only grew smaller when I moved to North Dakota, but through all those years, I couldn’t get rid of it. This was a time of great overconsumption in my wardrobe, filled with fun things I had been infatuated with at thrift shops but couldn’t actually fit into many cohesive, practical outfits.
Despite almost never wearing it, that jacket survived several moves and a few certified Marie Kondo “decluttering” sessions. For the uninitiated, Kondo is a Japanese home organization expert, whose book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up was a sensation in the mid-2010s. Because this is the age of compression, Kondo at the peak of her fame in the U.S. was mostly reduced to jokes about ruthless discarding of possessions that don’t “spark joy.” Her process and philosophy are more multifaceted than that, but yes, she loved throwing things away, and yes, her advice was essentially to hold every object you owned and evaluate whether joy is sparked. If not, out of your life it goes.
That possession interrogation process isn’t a silly exercise, though. As her book states, “tidying is a dialogue with oneself.” Joy is a larger concept to Kondo than infatuation or happiness. Indeed, I suspect the Japanese word she used in the original text was probably nuanced, but I’ll just speak to my understanding of her concept of “joy” here. Joy, as sparked by an object one owns, means that the object is serving you in a healthy way. It belongs in your life, and a space is available for it.
Kondo’s version of “tidying” is essentially a gigantic clearing out and evaluation of everything one owns. Again and again in her book, she stresses that if done properly, her “KonMari method” of discarding need only be done once. After having extensive dialogue with oneself about one’s material needs, Kondo argues that it becomes harder to accumulate junk that becomes clutter. Some might think her method wasteful since it involves getting rid of so much, but Kondo’s holistic approach to thinking mindfully of what one owns can also be seen as a long-term, sustainable shift.
I try to live a relatively sustainable lifestyle. It’s difficult to do as a lower income person in America, where most of the options in your price range exploit someone or something, especially when it comes to clothes. Although I read with horror any news piece I can find on the human and environmental costs of fast fashion, I still pick up a basic from H&M or Target every so often.
Thrifting is cost effective and much better for the environment, but as every thrift store shopper knows, finding a perfect piece for yourself isn’t an easy game, especially as it has become more trendy with the fashionable set in the last decade or so. Prices have started to rise, and there’s more competition out there for “the good stuff,” especially from online sellers and/or devotees who buy up more merchandise than they can wear. As social media became a place to display thrifted items with the pride one might have once displayed a new designer piece, more people are participating for the optics, and are falling into the same trap as those who burn through fast fashion: underappreciation of or alienation from their clothes.
Clothes are the most intimate possessions we own. We don’t just use them; they help make up our image. We live in a world of fast-moving trends, but whatever your income, shopping sources or fashion ethos, having a more conscious relationship with your clothes will help curb wardrobe spending and consumption.
As I glanced at myself in yet another shop window wearing my leather jacket, I realized why I had kept this piece for so long. When I held it, it sparked joy, and I finally live in a place with a climate that is perfect for it, supplied with a wardrobe that it complements. The whole time I’ve owned this jacket, this was the moment I was waiting for.
I didn’t exactly have a psychic inclination about one day needing this jacket, and there have been plenty of wardrobe pieces I’ve held onto for similar reasons that I had to eventually give up the ghost on, but I think my enduring love and care for this jacket was a result of a serious dialogue with myself. Because I have returned to my closet again and again with a discerning eye, gradually gathering things over the years that felt true to me rather than convenient or trendy, I built myself a wardrobe for the person I was becoming.
Caring about your wardrobe is not superficial; it is responsible. The objects we buy and surround ourselves with matter, and when we give them time and attention, they serve us instead of the other way around.
Barnard Street Tattler 