Saturdays like this are why I stayed in fashion when every voice in my head said get a stable job.
I spent the whole morning thrifting the Bushwick vintage fair — the big one near the Jefferson L stop, the warehouse lot where the racks spill out onto the pavement and the good stuff is always in the ugliest bins.
I was pulling pieces for a client shoot next week. The brief was "nostalgic but not costume," which is designer-speak for "we have no idea, make it look expensive." So I do what I always do. I dig.
Thrifting the Bushwick vintage fair is a full-body sport. You have to be there by nine. You have to be okay with getting elbowed by a stylist who's faster than you. You have to trust your hands more than your eyes — I find the best fabric by touch before I ever see it.
And today my hands found it. A boxy 1970s denim jacket, nothing special on the outside. But I turned it inside out and the lining was old sari silk. Peacock blue, gold zari edge, clearly cut from something someone loved in a past life. Five dollars.
I stood there holding it like it was a relic. Because it kind of was. Somebody's grandmother's sari, reincarnated into a Brooklyn denim jacket. That's the whole story of my life, honestly. Two worlds stitched into one garment.
This is what I want people to understand about sustainable fashion. It's not about guilt. It's about ghosts. Every secondhand piece carries somebody. Thrifting the Bushwick vintage fair isn't me saving the planet — it's me refusing to let good stories go to a landfill.
The client's going to love the jacket. I'm not telling them it was five dollars.
Some treasure you find. Some treasure finds you back.
Love,