My name is Patrice and I'm a shopaholic who hasn't purchased new clothes or accessories in almost a year. Tough, right? Well, yes and no. Though I went on a no-new-clothes-for-a-year challenge, I've been able to feed my fashion habit thanks to local thrift shops.
The exhibition's color scheme is gaudy and disjunctive like the colors of a thrift store's multiplicity of objects. The Claytons' palette is skillfully mismatched in a tongue-in-cheek nod to the untrained chromatic discord of paintings found in secondhand stores.
On the fringes of the boarded-up hinterlands of a former industrial section of a small Missouri town stands a building, decrepit yet painted a shade of purple so striking that it seems phantasmal against its drab backdrop of deadened grays and tans.
These are the lyrics Macklemore's hit song "Thrift Shop" as written in classical prose. The song conquered the music industry with its message championing the virtue of frugality, meekness, and sensibility.
I always felt that I lacked the vision to pluck some hidden treasure from a thrift store, Craigslist, or flea market and turn it into something amazing. Well, recently an opportunity arose that challenged me to do just that.
It's easy to buy Balenciaga. Prada, too. But, to a certain sector of sartorialist, the adventure of hunting and gathering unidentifiable fashion is far more thrilling. Outre glamour is, in fact, a hallmark of the truly stylish.