As my clearout extends to my cyber presence, I've been cleaning out the photos hosted on my server, meaning I get to go through thousands of shots from the past few years. It's tedious, but it's cool to see some of the things I've sold, like:
Yes, I was one of the people who joined in the record-breaking download of Firefox 3. To quote Bubbles, from The Trailer Park Boys, "It's f*cking awesome!"
My favorite tweak, so far, is that I can adjust the colors of jpegs, making them richer, and truer to their original scheme (it always drove me nuts that my photos looked great until I viewed them in my browser).
Maybe it was the two root beer vodka tonics (delicious! at night. the next day? not so delicious) but a sentence in this article in the Sunday New York Times Magazine about Floral Designer Daniel Ost all of a sudden gave me a "theme" to some of the crap in the junk drawer that is my brain.
Here's the quotation, in case you don't feel like reading the whole article:
The process of decay interests Ost. “I’ve always wanted to show flowers in their optimum moment, but now that I’m older, I also want to explore the beauty of dying.”
Like Ost, I'm getting older, and find myself increasingly interested in the descendent curve of the arc. And when you start to look for it, you see it everywhere. All of a sudden I realize that my yard is FULL of examples - like the grass and Columbine-choked staircase in the back of my yard.
Or the massive rotting birch tree, planted by the previous owner of the house, when he was a little boy. (Sadly this is going to have to be cut down before it falls into the garage full of vintage motorcyles).
Decay is not so lovely in vintage clothing, rendering most things unsaleable. But I do (emotionally, not financially) love the smear of lipstick and spots of wine and a party dress - the remnants of a good night. Or the wear and tear to an obviously favorite jacket, replaced buttons, pinholes, shredded lining.
Like most people who are into vintage clothing, I am a serious sucker for novelty prints. My favorite theme is "the impossible": Reading dogs; Edwardian women riding motor scooters; fuschia horses; hippos on unicycles....
As much as I love novelty prints, I've never met one so cool that I couldn't bring myself to sell it. Until now. I have met my match, and it's formidable. A 1950's blouse in a futurist newspaper print.
It's "dated" April 1, 1999 (get it?). Not surprisingly, the 50's vision of the future involved people living on the moon, atomic devices, aliens, pills instead of meals, a one hour work week, and my favorite, the portable TV, which looks a lot like my Mac laptop.
Every kid in my high school loved Rush. Except me. I figured that if everyone liked them, then I was far too "alternative" to follow the herd.
Getting older can be enlightening. And giving up "the cool" can be a hell of a lot of fun. Because every kid in my high school was right and I was wrong. Rush rocks. ROCKS. I saw them live last night. 10th row. I now have a wee (okay, huge) crush on Geddy Lee.
How could I not?! He just gets more and more dreamy.
One of the things I love about anything vintage is that it's removed from its original context, and you can view the band, the dress, the movie objectively, without the situational bias. Of course there's nostalgia - the 80's clothing I sell evokes all sorts of memories. But when I see it today, without drowning in teen-age angst, it looks so much better.
Just like Geddy Lee (meow). I can't wait for the next Rush concert.
While listing this 60's pink silk dress, I did some research on the designer, Mary Sachs. According to this site, she opened her first store in 1918, which blossomed into a small chain of stores in the mid-Pennsylvania area, and she was a generous and influential member of the community.
I see a lot of beautiful vintage clothing, made by "smaller" designers, who had a niche in their region.
Her stores were special - I'm sure the salespeople knew their clients, and that the experience of going shopping as as much of an allure as the clothing themselves.
Now it's anonymity in Marshall's, the warehouse overload of Old Navy, or the constant subtle (but not) sales pressure from fake-friendly 20 somethings at the The Limited. Sadly, there are few places where you know the person who made the clothing, and the sales folks are also your friends.
That's why I try to buy local when I can. My links include lots of people in the Portland area (and some outside) who create beautiful things. And I like to buy from them.
Apparently I'm not the only person who thinks that Portland has a great scene. Design*Sponge agrees!
Judging from my Dorothy Hamill haircut, it was taken in the summer of 1977.
My sister is wearing a bombshell (for a 7 year old) black velvet 50's party dress (I shudder to think there was a designer label inside), and the other two girls are in pretty pink floral party dresses.
Me? I chose the secretary look. Not a sexy (for a 9 year old) secretary look. It was more the look of the secretary who has been with the firm for 50 years and secretly scares everyone because she knows all their dirt. Red skirt, white blouse with a high ruffled neck and a pink cardigan. In July. Yeesh.
We had found the clothes at a 4th of July Rummage Sale in Standish, Maine. $1.00 a bag. It on a lawn in the village (I CLEARLY remember it Nancy!). *My sister swears it was held in the fire barn, but that was a later, not so good, rummage sale. (We also disagree about who caught that bluefish at Cape May in the early 70's (Nancy just because I handed the pole over to you after it bit doesn't mean you caught it!)].
At the age of 9, I didn't "get" vintage clothing, I just knew we found some cool dressup. But I remember peplums and velvet and chiffon, and my mother and our neighbor going on about the old clothes. We kept them in a tent outside of the house and put on a fashion show at the end of the summer to raise money for ice cream.
And then they got mildewed or filled with bugs and my mother tossed them all. Those clothes, along with my 1970's Matchbox cars and my dad's 1950's baseball cards, are pretty much the only thing she ever threw out.
After reading my friend Holly's latest blog, I was inspired to add a link to her site, and to others.
I have so many talented friends in real life, and online. Here are their links.
If I've missed you, please let me know - I am being distracted by my associate as he practices for his Led Zeppelin tribute show (speaking of being surrounded by talent!)
We had our bi-annual yard sale here at NorthStar Vintage Corporate Headquarters this week. It was a lot of work - every time I do this I question the wisdom of holding a "cocktail preview" for friends the night before. It does not enhance the experience of waking up and dealing with "early birds."
Still, clearing out is a great feeling, and just being outside makes me happy.
HERE are some pics of the setup. We still have that damn mixing board.
And now back to our regularly scheduled posting and listing.
Here in Maine I come across lots of great wool and work vintage, and most money was "old money" so good cutting edge pre-90's pieces are hard to find.
So I considered myself extremely lucky to find a 60's Rudi Gernrich dress, even if it was a fairly conservative shift dress. But yesterday I found a rarity - a dress from the British Boutique Movement (Ossie Clark, Jean Muir, Celia Birtwell) - a 1970's wench look dress from Dollyrockers.
I never imagined that I'd able to use my beloved framed photo of Mr. Chicago 1944 (and runners up) as a tie in to one of my auctions. But sometimes selling vintage creates the lovelist coincidences:
Meet Mr. Chicago 1944 (and runners up):
And meet, a racy pair of 1940's satin swim trunks. Mr. Chicago 1944 (or one of his runners up) would have totally rocked these:
I was a teenager/young adult during the 80's and initially had a hard time accepting that 80's clothing (and music) as "vintage."
But I see now the beauty in the adaption of New Wave and the inverted triangle silhouette. Plus, I am compensated by the opportunity to indulge in some nostalgia. Some memories, like those of my prom and craptastic prom dress, are bad. Some memories are good, like those resurrected by selling this early 1980's Grateful Dead t-shirt.
I have (or had) a shirt almost identical, purchased at a Dead show in the mid-80's.
In spring of 1984, on a whim, some friends and I decided to go see the Grateful Dead at the Cumberland County Civic Center in Portland, Maine. We knew nothing about the band - they hadn't had their big "I Will Get By" hit, and we had never heard the term "Deadhead." We just thought it would be an interesting rock show and a fun place to get stoned and meet guys. The tickets were $14.50 and we were able to buy them a few days before the show.
And so the three of us, all starters on the state championship field hockey team - the goalie, myself (a fullback) and the other fullback went to see the Dead. And us three girls, in from the boondocks of Maine, in our pegged pants and fluffy hair, were smitten. The Deadheads were in full, patchouli-reeking, shrooming force. And all that crazy dancing and hugging!
Next fall we saw them in Augusta Civic Center - an even smaller venue. This time we knew what to expect, and indulged accordingly. We met two boys we called "Chewey" (as in Chewbacca) and "Spacey" (self-explanatory) and I think there was some making out. Luckily we did not have a game the next day, as we, the last two lines of defense against goals, were feeling rather sluggish.
I went on to college and checked out Dead shows when I could, though by then they were playing stadiums and tickets were expensive and rare. The goalie dropped out of college and gave up her full field hockey scholarship to follow the band. The other fullback managed to stay in school, but was still a Deadhead.
Sadly, I think that during my punk rock days I threw away my t-shirt in a fit of Dead-hating angst. I wish I still had it!
This weekend I watched my neighbor going to her senior prom. She wore a strapless wine satin gown with beading on the bust, and a matching shawl. It looked beautiful with her pale skin and black (dyed) hair. Her boyfriend wore a top hat and long tuxedo jacket, and he seemed pretty pimped out for a Maine prom. But...well...my prom date ended up committing some rather serious crimes, so I guess I'm not one to judge.
I envied my pretty neighbor in her classic gown. She won't be embarrassed in 20 years, like some of us. I wore a Gunne Sax. A huge puffy white Gunne Sax that looked as if it was made of toilet paper.
And yes, I have developed an appreciation for vintage Gunnes, and I love to sell them all the lovely, hip gals out there. But mine was a monstrosity. Even today it would be unhip, and not even in a good, ironic way.
Pictures exist, but I will not post them here, as this blog is more about my business than about my fashion mistakes (which would be a blog in itself).
In honor of 80's and bad prom dresses, I give you the ultimate 1980's bad prom dress. Even when I first saw this movie, and was completely under the spell of John Hughes, I thought this was an abomination. And the salt on the wound? She cut up a vintage dress to create this horror show.
Sometimes I buy things that aren't fun to photograph. Like a cubic yard of organic compost.
My pretty new truck is now coated with dirt, my back muscles are crabby, and I have a pretty new blister. But my plants and bushes are happy. Very, very happy.
When I buy vintage for resale I shut off the rather large "collector" portion of my brain. Otherwise my house and closets would be like those novelty cans of candy that filled with coiled up springs.
But I made an exception when I bought a box of aprons and scarves - from a woman who supposedly had posed for some risque photos. :
I took the day off from my computer to buy out an estate. En route I found this painting, which combines two of my favorite things - kittens, and wacky outsider art.
On the walls - a series of 6 portaits of the same poodle. Insane in my favorite sort of way.
In front, my little Luna (as in Lunatic). Generally a black shadow with bright green eyes, hiding behind a plant. This gown brought her out. Maybe it's all the aurora borealis rhinestones.
1930's Art Deco Print Dress
1950's Ceil Chapman Silk Jersey Dress
1920's Cycle Club Jersey (in wool! ugh!)
1950's Reindeer Applique Parka
1950's Harvey Berin Dress
1950's Black All in One Girdle
Iconic 1950's Claire McCardell Blue Dress
1940's Copper Satin Suit with Double Peplum
1938 Embroidered "Beer" Jacket
Maybe it was the two root beer vodka tonics (delicious! at night. the next day? not so delicious) but a sentence in this article in the Sunday New York Times Magazine about Floral Designer Daniel Ost all of a sudden gave me a "theme" to some of the crap in the junk drawer that is my brain.
Or the massive rotting birch tree, planted by the previous owner of the house, when he was a little boy. (Sadly this is going to have to be cut down before it falls into the garage full of vintage motorcyles).
While listing this 60's pink silk dress, I did some research on the designer, Mary Sachs. According to this site, she opened her first store in 1918, which blossomed into a small chain of stores in the mid-Pennsylvania area, and she was a generous and influential member of the community.
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