I went thrifting in Bushwick on Sunday, off the L train at Morgan Ave, because I had a styling job coming up and a hole in my budget the size of Brooklyn.
Thrifting in Bushwick is a full sport. You have to be willing to dig, to sweat, to not fall in love with everything that's the wrong size. I have a rule: pull it, then decide. Never decide on the rack.
So I'm elbow-deep in a bin at this shop off Bogart Street, and my hand closes around silk. Actual silk. I pull it out and it's a sari blouse. A hand-embroidered choli, 1970s if I had to guess, deep maroon with gold zari work coming loose at one sleeve.
How did it get here? From some aunty's trunk in Jackson Heights to a Bushwick bin, three dollars, waiting for me. Thrifting in Bushwick will do this to you. It humbles you and then it hands you a small miracle.
I think about this a lot in fashion work: clothes carry the people who wore them. This blouse was made for a body that danced in it, sweated in it, got scolded in it, maybe. The zari was stitched by hands that are probably not stitching anymore. You can't buy that intention new. Fast fashion has no ghosts.
I'm not going to cut it up. I'll repair the sleeve myself, hand-stitch it on my kitchen counter with the F train rattling below my window, and I'll style it on set with wide vintage trousers. Old thing, new sentence.
Sustainability in this industry gets talked about like a marketing bullet point, but really it's just this: refuse to let a beautiful thing die because it's out of season. Thrifting in Bushwick is the least corporate part of my whole job and honestly the part that keeps me in it.
I carried it home on the L wrapped in my tote like a small sleeping animal.
Some clothes find you. This one had been waiting.
Love,