So what’s with vintage?

When you buy something new, wrapped in plastic, foam and cardboard, you seldom think about that object’s history. The history, that is, of the natural elements found in the ground, the oil and gas that becomes plastic, or the people who probably worked for as much as I pay for a packet of gum to make it. One of the things people like about ‘new stuff’ is the fact that it doesn’t have a history. There’s something exciting about opening a new appliance or wearing a new top and knowing that you are the first one to use it. New possessions give us a kind of status. But increasingly, old things seem to be doing the same thing.

As far as I can see, until fairly recently there were people who were into antiques, and there were people who bought everything new; those for whom the 1950′s world of brand-spanking new white goods and “everything that opens and shuts” still hasn’t worn off. But I wasn’t aware until maybe five years ago of a large crop of people, particularly of my age and socio-economic group, that lived and breathed for the iconic second-hand. I love going to markets, scouring op-shops and decorating my place with oddments from other decades. But so do a good half of Melbourne’s population. And that collective group seems to describe their love of old things as a passion for ‘vintage’.

What exactly makes something ‘vintage’? Going for the good old dictionary definition, there are three main uses of the word. The first is in winemaking. Vintage specifically means ‘what year/season’ the wine was made. Secondly, it’s used in relation to something that is representative of either the best or most typical of a product, or to describe something of influence and importance in an era ie. something ‘classic’. Lastly, it simply means old-fashioned or ‘dated’.

Most people I know seem to use the word vintage in its third sense. Unless we happen to be vintage clothing connoisseurs, we won’t know the name of that specific shirt cut, or where it originated and what exact year and by whom it was made popular. It seems that if anything is more than twenty years old, it’s ‘vintage’. And vintage has become unbearably trendy. Using the very word in relation to yourself, if you’re between fifteen and thirty at least, seems to identify you as a specific ‘type’ of person. Describing your dress sense as ‘vintage’ says: “I’m arty, not mainstream”, “I have good taste” or “I’m not just a generation Y with no concept of history. Look at me, I’m wearing it.”

Vintage has also become both ‘arty’ and ‘enviro-friendly’. And since enviro-friendly and arty are now the coolest things to be, recycling fashions rather than buying into new ones must be the hallmark of ‘cool’, right? Eek. This is all starting to sound a little pretentious. And nobody wants that. But if this is true then I, unfortunately, have fallen prey to pocketing the identity that goes along with being a vintage-lover. Arty-enviro-friendly-wanker. It’s attached to my 1950′s high-waist dresses, my little sixties neckties and scarves, the old brooches and handbags. It is manifest every time I enter an op-shop or manage to wake early for the goodies at Camberwell Market. Oh dear.

But is there another reason that I like vintage stuff? I hope so. I mean, I like old things aesthetically. But I hope I don’t just acquire dated paraphernalia because it’s cool, or even pretty. What’s more important than the objects themselves, to me, is the history that lies dormant within them. What crazy party did this shirt attend back in the eighties? Did the person wearing it get lucky that night? What mother sat brushing her little girl’s hair with this mirror and comb set? Who sat frantically writing a last minute assignment at this desk before me? What woman in the 1940′s took this handbag around the streets of another city, another country even, guarding her precious ration card while soldiers marched the streets?

One of the first things I remember doing in a creative writing class was writing about an object, using it as inspiration. “Objects tell stories.” It seems to be one of the central tenets of writing. People have written entire novels based around objects. Metaphorical objects, objects with special powers or with monetary or other value, but also just ordinary objects, ones that we buy and use and that outlive their use or season, only to be picked up again later under a new light. Aside from liking vintage things for their aesthetic value, there is something powerful and mysterious about holding in your hand, or wearing on your body, the things that coloured the life of another person. It’s like a hand-me-down with a history you get to create yourself. My possessions become not just things to give me status, but things to remind me of a life before me, of other places and other times, of people here and gone.

So when your second-hand accoutrements foster creativity and imagination and you throw in the eco-friendly factor, maybe the obsession isn’t so pretentious after all. Well at least I’d like to think so, since I’ll be at Camberwell Market rain or shine next Sunday.

a drop in the stitch

Yesterday, in accordance with my productive intentions for the holidays, I decided to drag out my housemate Leah’s old sewing machine. I was planning to attempt hemming and altering various pieces of ill-fitting clothing I’ve bought at markets and op-shops over the last couple of months. I envisoned myself transforming these drab granny frocks into fabulous vintage pieces with a few raised hemlines, pleats and darts. The first thing to do was to thread the sewing machine, which was different from the one my Nan taught me to use several years ago when lived with us. After flipping the machine around and around again to try and figure out exactly which way the thread should go, Tamsin came downstairs and noticed me googling “how to thread Bernina 730 sewing machine”. With the careless ease that only Tamsin has, she looped my thread through the appropriate metal protrusions in about three seconds and went on her merry way.

With that done, I realised I had no idea how to go about taking up a hem. Overlocking? Invisible thread? Blind-hem stitch? In search of an easy answer I took off down to the Cambwerwell sewing centre on Burke Road. I must have walked past hundreds of times and never given it a second glance, but it was a beacon of light waiting to receive me in yesterdays bleak winter fog. Well, not quite actually. It was clear from the second I walked in that this was a place for serious sewers. The whole shop screamed “hardcore”, from the dozens of digital new-fangled machines blinking and purring at me to the stern middle aged assistant in a cable knit jumper that approached me upon entry.
“Can I help you?” The mandatory greeting.
“Yes, hi. I’m wanting to alter a couple of dresses and take up some hem’s on my old sewing machine and I was just wondering how to – er – go about that.”
A knowing sigh emanated from the man I addressed. Tall, slightly stooped with white hair—he was probably in his late sixties with a lifetime of tailoring and dressmaking experience, and little patience for clueless teenagers who thought stiching up material would be as easy as breathing.
“What kind of machine do you have?”
“It’s uh, a B…
“Bernina?”
“Yes. Bernina 730.” I said with releif.
He laughed. “God. That certainly is an old one.”
“It has about twenty different stich settings, I’m not sure if there’s a blind hemming one.”
Another sigh. “Do you know how to take up a hem?” He looked at me with the patronizing expression I sometimes use on mother’s who insist on buying their children shoes three sizes too big. Do you have any idea what on earth you’re doing? Was the unmistakable subtext.
“Er- well, not exactly, I haven’t sewn in a while.” That was certainly clear enough.
He proceeded to demonstrate with a scrap of material how to go about doing a blind hem.
“It’s all in the fold.” Another tired glance. “You need to have a bit of experience though. It’s not something you can just do in five seconds.”
I nodded. “Ok, well, maybe I can just do an ordinary hem with invisible stiching. Do you have that transparent thread stuff?”
“We do, but it’s not invisible. You can still see it on dark colours. And as you can see, it’s a bit of money.” He held up the product, a reel of thread that looked to me exactly like fishing line, with a price sticker reading $13.99. I balked.
“Maybe I’ll just get coloured thread to match the clothes instead.” I said.
He nodded. “Yes, but you’ll need the material to match the colours up.”
“Oh, I’ve got the colours in my head,” I answered confidently.
The old man laughed again. “You must have a pretty good head.”
I stumbled over some rolls of material and frantically scanned the rows of brightly coloured poly-cotton, quickly realising my head definitely wasn’t good enough to pick the right shade of grey for the tunic I had planned to start with.
“It’s best to get a shade darker than the garment, so it blends in.” A voice offered helpfully from behind me. The woman at the counter, glasses hanging from a yellowing gold chain, peered over at me.
“Thanks.” I snatched at a couple of charcoal reels. Turning to pay, I realised I had no cash and that this place would probably have a ten dollar eftpos minimum. At the counter, I spied some vintage-looking tins about the size of a deck of playing cards.
“These are gorgeous!” I opened one up. “Wow, they’ve got everything inside.” A tiny pair of scissors, a thimble, tape measure, pins, a stich ripper, needles and thread fit neatly inside.
“Oh, they’re just little emergency kits.” The woman commented, “to keep in your handbag.
“Oh. So they’re not for proper sewing.”
She chuckled. “Definitely not. You certainly need something more substantial than that.”
I put the tin down, deciding the twenty dollar investment for an insubstantial emergency kit wasn’t what I was there for. I settled on a five dollar pin-cushion that looked like a tomato to make up the rest of the money.
“Thanks a lot.” I nodded at the man who has assisted me, who was now deep in conversation with another customer discussing the merits of the new Singer machine, and hurried out into the cold street.

Back at home, I stuck a few odd pins sitting on my windowsill into the tomato and put it next to my corkboard. The reels of cotton I bought are still in the bottom of my bag somewhere. Who needs shorter hems in winter anyway?