The Art Of The Thrift
- Andrew Brightly
- Oct 4, 2024
- 4 min read
Last Friday, I went to a networking event. It was on a rooftop. A rooftop lounge in the Lower East Side. I met a gentleman who had a suit on. He was a very nice guy. He complimented me on my suit. I his. He mentioned to me that his suit was made of dri fit, which is a material you probably are accustomed to if you run or are into athleisure. Nike brought it to the forefront years ago.
There was no wool incorporated in the suit. He was very proud of himself. There's nothing wrong with being proud of yourself. He told me where he acquired the suit. There's a place called State and Liberty. If you go to their website, their focus is on athletic fit suiting. This what you’ll read: “Men's athletic fit stretch suits designed for guys with an athletic physique. Professional look, stretchy, lightweight, breathable, moisture wicking, and wrinkle free. Our suits are built on the foundation of never sacrificing comfort for fit.” Are you freaking kidding me? This is the worst idea ever. Buddy, dri fit? What are you doing? Are you wrestling in your suit? Are you about to run the 40 in this suit?
There's not one natural fiber encompassed in this suit. You can be of any type of proportion, athletic fit, so on and so forth. Do yourself a favor, gentlemen. Natural fibers should 100 percent be in your suit. Wool stretches, guys. It gives. So does cotton. Why am I seeing advertisements for guys in suits running a 40? It makes no sense. It's stupid. Either go to a store that fits your dimensions or get your suit done custom. It's not that difficult. This is a sham. The suits go for around 450 to 550.
I love the pride emanating from this gentleman that I met on Friday, but he was a young buck and in parting I put my business card in his jacket. He needs my help. Always be fly.
PRO TIP: Don't do this guys. You're wasting your money.
The Art Of The Thrift
By Andrew Brightly
Picture it: Philadelphia, the fall of 1996. It was the start of art school, and it was my thrift shop awakening. In high school, my personal style had been simplicity: three pairs of pants, some solid color t-shirts, and a couple button downs I selected from my parents’ LL Bean catalog. I had so few items in my possession that I was worried one bag lost by an airline would result in the elimination of my entire wardrobe. I favored navy blue, leading to a Reservoir-Dogs-inspired high school nickname of Mr Blue. Cool. In the art-saturated university context, however, my nickname became Blue Boy (as in the portrait by Thomas Gainsborough). Not cool. I became interested in diversifying my clothes.
I assume personal reinvention is common among freshmen at all colleges, but this drive manifested among my peers in an extreme way. Tyler School of Art condensed the most artsy teens within a two-hour drive. Away from the moderating influence of their parents and past classmates, freshmen quickly updated their respective looks with new face piercings, shaved and dyed hair, tattoos, and eccentric clothing. The punky got punkier, hippies groovier, and the basically-attired could take on whatever eccentricity they fancied. This heightening of styles was made easy by North Philly thrift stores.
Apart from incorporating more colors in my closet I didn’t alter my look much. I was, however, very taken with the distinct secondhand outerwear that appeared on campus as the weather grew colder. Cool 1970s leather jackets like Gene Hackman or Richard Roundtree might have worn were common. A photography major I knew found one with a charismatic fur lapel. I found a jacket with a fur color, but it wasn’t leather. I got myself a security guard bomber jacket with a blue faux fur collar and embroidered badge patch. This jacket once prompted a salute from another driver, as I looked not unlike a Fargo highway patrolman behind the wheel of my dad’s Ford Mercury Grand Marquis. My career appropriation continued with a second hand gray auto center jacket and a surplus navy pea coat.
A jewelry major I had a crush on wore a striped Marty McFly style puffy vest almost every day in the fall. Puffy 1980s vests were something of a trend: popular with the hottest of jewelers and graphic designers. I got an off-brand blue track jacket with four white stripes on the sleeves instead of Adidas’ three. Fake fur jackets were in abundance. Overall, student style in the class of 2000 was eclectic and full of character.
The following twenty years I visited thrift stores seldom and thought little of clothes generally. My habits changed in 2020 as I began browsing secondhand clothes on Poshmark and Depop. This then led to a renewed interest in in-person thrifting. I now live in Tucson where there are regular flea markets and vintage clothing markets, and every other block seems to have a thrift store. I’ve mapped out a loop where I regularly drive to six in succession.
I don’t see cool 1970s jackets on the hangers anymore, but last year I got nostalgic buying my own 1980s puffy striped vest at Savers. At Goodwill I grabbed a Pendleton plaid wool jacket for only $7 because it had moth holes (which I easily repaired by felting). This was endlessly more satisfying than if I had purchased the $275 new version at Pendleton’s Scottsdale store.
A consignment store in nearby Bisbee held my greatest second hand triumph. I spotted (it was hard not to) a golden yellow velvet tuxedo by Dolce and Gabbana. I’m 90% sure it’s authentic, and it cost only $90—complete with perfectly fitted trousers.
I can report that thrift stores remain a rewarding source for artsy outerwear and everyday pieces. The key is to browse frequently and be open to what the universe provides.
Andrew Brightly
The Art Of The Thrift
Specializes in the design and illustration of book covers and interiors. His clients include a variety of trade publishers and university presses such as Andrews McMeel Universal, Disney/Hyperion, Hachette Book Group, Oxford University Press, Rodale Press, and Stanford University Press.
Comments