How 'Thrifted' Became High Fashion
On the latest runways, designers have clearly been borrowing from this youth aesthetic.
The thrift store wasn't always a mecca for resellers and plucky costume designers. At thirteen, it's where I went back-to-school shopping with my mom. We traversed the aisles looking for blue and white long sleeves to match my grade school dress code. If you were lucky, you might find a Beatles t-shirt hidden between a Justice short sleeve and tie-dye camp memorabilia. Even luckier, your mom might snag you a pair of Gap overalls from the long garment section.
In high school, the thrift store was a stomping ground for any fashionable teen, at least in the modern era. Friends gathered to buy ironic "World's Best Grandma" sweatshirts and only slightly tattered Converse. Everyone showed up to the first day of school in oversized jeans tied around the waist with a shoestring, as was the popular style. Today, the world's teens aren't limited by what they can find at the local Goodwill, secondhand clothing of all sorts is available online through Depop or other apps.
The coolness of thrifting can be split pretty cleanly into the pre and post-Macklemore eras. Before 2012, when the rapper famously dropped his hit track "Thrift Shop," clothes from the discount bin were largely considered dirty, cheap, and relegated to those who could afford little else. Of course, there were always the savvy fashionistas scouring the untamed racks, but the worldwide thrifting phenomenon as we know it was a later invention.
Post-2012, after Macklemore said "One man's trash, that's another man's come up / Thank your granddad for donating that plaid button-up shirt," finding a "trashy" item and reappropriating it became a mark of good taste. Was this all due to Macklemore's influence? No, of course not, but he serves as a useful benchmark. More significant to thrifting's domination was kids' lack of disposable income and the increased awareness of fashion's negative environmental impact. Fast fashion is out, being sustainable is all the rage.
So, the youth culture is in a new aesthetic era, one defined by what's available in the nearest charity shop. Uniqueness is paramount; there isn't a rack of identical blouses at the thrift store. You buy a one-of-a-kind item. This fervor for retro, statement pieces has found its way into the emerging "avant-basic" style that attempts to replicate true vintage with budget replicas.
A side effect of the one-of-a-kind nature of thrift shops is the one-size-fits-all mindset. If you find a pair of jeans you love and they are six sizes too big, oh well. There's no calling a salesperson to pull your size out of the back room. You either take those gigantic trousers and make them work or part with your find. Here we get the shoelace belt and DIY resizing trends. Everything at the thrift store is cheap enough to become a home project. Boys' t-shirts become fashionable crop tops. Long dresses get snipped down into mini dresses. Shoulder pads are yanked from their seams and in 2015, everything was cut into a crop top.
The thing about youth culture is that inevitably, the adults catch on. No good trend goes unreplicated. On the most recent runways, that rule was on full display. Coach sent their models, a number of whom were riding skateboards, down the catwalk in denim vests, graphic tees, and knee-length jorts. At the sight of the plaid, cotton underpants deliberately peeking from underneath the waistband, I flashed back to watching my middle school classmates strut around topless on the playground, doing a poor imitation of their favorite '90s hip-hop idols. The only difference, these models were white and wearing clothing no middle schooler could afford.
At R13, the models were tastefully dirty, with busted sneakers and a tattered sweater vest that could have easily been cut from someone's grandfather's pullover. The clothes evoked a homemade style that in reality, we know can't be authentic. These garments were made in an atelier, not a childhood bedroom. Prada walked an oversized, distressed leather jacket and The Elder Statesman had a tie-dye dress I swear I've seen in the girls' section at Village Discount.
This replication of discount fashion isn't necessarily a problem. It's inevitable that luxury will borrow from what the kids make cool and vice versa. But, there is something sinister about taking an item of clothing meant to be unique, sustainable, and affordable, then turning it into a mass-produced, inaccessible, luxury item.
Oversized jorts aren't cool because they look good; they're neat because they are available and steeped in a sort of youthful irony. Look at my baggy jeans that no one else wanted! They were $2.99 because no one's worn them in all seriousness since the '90s! Coach misunderstands this relationship.
When R13 takes inspiration from a moth-eaten, well-worn t-shirt that has seen three generations of love, and cuts precise little holes in their replica item, their garment misses out on some of the original's magic. The question becomes, why pay $500 for a busted shirt? And who would, or could, pay that price anyway? Certainly not the kids with $50 in their pocket that inspired the designer.
There's a cyclical nature to this poor kid, rich man connection. The youngins make something unique. A designer will inevitably build upon that idea to market their luxury retail. After that item sells for hundreds or thousands of dollars and gets its wear, it will end up back in a thrift shop, where a different kid will take it home and chop it up into a new dress.
