I watched "Sunset Boulevard" on Thursday. I just kept thinking "...I probably shouldn't be identifying with Norma Desmond like this..."
Oh well. Eccentric, obsessive, gold lame-wearing, William Holden-adoring, homebodies unite.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Playing by the Rules
I have some rules. Treasures can be found at most any location: yard sale, consignment store, thrift shop, basement. Once I was at work and a man came to the door with a big box, “I heard there was a young woman here who likes costume jewelry?” he offered. Indeed. That's how I received Mrs. McGarvey's collection of costume jewelry.
But, you cannot “find” treasures at antique stores or collectables shows. Vendors have already cut to the chase: It is their job to hunt for marketable goods and arrange them with folksy allure. I’m not saying that you can’t buy something delightful, wonderful, unanticipated at an antique store (I did today!), but it is not a discovery.
See left, modeled by Myrtle: Not a discovery: kicky 1960s mini-dress from Uniontown antique store. While not officially a treasure, at a solid $5, it was a steal (pair with thin-knit black turtleneck, opaque tights, Mary Tyler Moore flats, knock ‘em dead).
I got a carload of stuff today. I went to the Uniontown community-wide yard sale with super-scavenger Sueann and her most tolerant fiancé. Although there were some ancillary yard sales in the Uniontown community, the focus of the day was concentrated at the park. Unfortunately, this day was grossly mis-marketed: the park was swimming with antique vendors. Depression glass gleamed; collectable toys dotted tables of linens and pottery. The scene was devastatingly seductive. What a sham.These were full-on dealers: high prices and high expectations that we’d fall all over their wares. Sueann soon discovered that the vendors were averse to bartering and even the local antique shops had more reasonable prices. But, at a slightly bearable $3.00, I got these:
Kind of gaudy. Kind of dated. Totally Christian Dior. Entirely loveable.
As the photo indicates, these sunglasses are green plastic with a purple swirl pattern and gilded accents on the sides. At $3.00, I wondered if they were from Christian Dior’s 1980s bargain line. I checked ebay and found these Vintage Christian Dior Brown Clear Sunglasses, with a Buy It Now option of $99.99.
While not a twin to my pair, they possess similar styling: plastic, oversized, same “CD” logo on the side. But is their $99.99 price tag an unqualified guess from Richmun, our seller? No. It appears that Richmun has successfully sold 5,400 pairs of vintage sunglasses and I infer has a reasonable sense of market values.
These sunglasses were purchased at a vendor. But does the low price tag versus market value qualify them as a “discovery?” You know, I love my rules, but even I’m not too staunch to see antique vendors with a new set of eyes. Especially when they’re framed by Dior.
But, you cannot “find” treasures at antique stores or collectables shows. Vendors have already cut to the chase: It is their job to hunt for marketable goods and arrange them with folksy allure. I’m not saying that you can’t buy something delightful, wonderful, unanticipated at an antique store (I did today!), but it is not a discovery.See left, modeled by Myrtle: Not a discovery: kicky 1960s mini-dress from Uniontown antique store. While not officially a treasure, at a solid $5, it was a steal (pair with thin-knit black turtleneck, opaque tights, Mary Tyler Moore flats, knock ‘em dead).
I got a carload of stuff today. I went to the Uniontown community-wide yard sale with super-scavenger Sueann and her most tolerant fiancé. Although there were some ancillary yard sales in the Uniontown community, the focus of the day was concentrated at the park. Unfortunately, this day was grossly mis-marketed: the park was swimming with antique vendors. Depression glass gleamed; collectable toys dotted tables of linens and pottery. The scene was devastatingly seductive. What a sham.These were full-on dealers: high prices and high expectations that we’d fall all over their wares. Sueann soon discovered that the vendors were averse to bartering and even the local antique shops had more reasonable prices. But, at a slightly bearable $3.00, I got these:
Kind of gaudy. Kind of dated. Totally Christian Dior. Entirely loveable.
As the photo indicates, these sunglasses are green plastic with a purple swirl pattern and gilded accents on the sides. At $3.00, I wondered if they were from Christian Dior’s 1980s bargain line. I checked ebay and found these Vintage Christian Dior Brown Clear Sunglasses, with a Buy It Now option of $99.99.
While not a twin to my pair, they possess similar styling: plastic, oversized, same “CD” logo on the side. But is their $99.99 price tag an unqualified guess from Richmun, our seller? No. It appears that Richmun has successfully sold 5,400 pairs of vintage sunglasses and I infer has a reasonable sense of market values.
These sunglasses were purchased at a vendor. But does the low price tag versus market value qualify them as a “discovery?” You know, I love my rules, but even I’m not too staunch to see antique vendors with a new set of eyes. Especially when they’re framed by Dior.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Estate Sales: Exposed!
Take a look at my profile. I am “relentless at estate sales.”
What does that mean? Well, once I had a spat with a mature woman as we both grabbed for an acorn-shaped fur hat. Triumphant, every once in a while I take it out of my closet and imagine wearing it while making a snowman with Ryan O’Neal. But what about something different? Last weekend, I had an experience that, while psychologically damaging, qualifies my attraction to estate sales…
I was in Salem, Oregon, visiting my best friend Sarah, who attends Willamette University. We have style; we love vintage.
After a Saturday successfully spent at a quirky vintage shop and bonding with kittens at Salem Friends of Felines, we were driving home. We turned on a picturesque street, bordered by the “not as sketchy” quadrant of Salem’s Bush Park. On the corner, a little yellow yard sign announced a distraction: Estate Sale. We followed.
Down the street. Around the park. There. A little house, some tents in the drive way, estate services professionals taking money and accessing “best offers.” The tables in the driveway presented a spread of telling goods: Black and white photographs, costume jewelry, newspapers, bold floral linens. My eyes were darting, blood pumping, fingers twitching. This house had belonged to old people.
We took the side entrance, from the carport into the house, ready to rifle through the lifetime accumulation of strangers. Sarah went ahead of me, up the stairs, to the right. Following, my eyes scanned for treasures: gold brocade club chair, blush-colored serving dishes. A man to my left absentmindedly fondled tchotchkes in a curio. My eyes continued tracking the scene: from the chairs to the wall hangings, to tchotchke guy.
When my eyes reassessed tchotchke guy, I discovered that his ardor for Estate Sales was far more literal than mine. Pants unbuttoned, he was exposed!
My Estate Sale goal index was reset. I prepared to bolt.
Sarah moved forward and away from the entrance, continuing to the back of the house. I went left, up a small flight of stairs. So violated. Like the vapid heroine of a horror film, I chastised myself for going upstairs, delving deeper into the house, further entrapping myself with the tchotchke fondler.
I backed down the stairs and proceeded through the circuit-style floor plan of the house, through a bedroom that smelled like baby powder and featured a stripped Tempur-Pedic adjustable bed, and into a well lit kitchen with a yellow Formica table. Where was he? Where was Sarah? Had she seen it too?! No, no. Surely we’d have left immediately. We should go. This is disturbing. Oooh? Is that a rack of vintage?
In a matter of moments, I was reunited with Sarah who was holding a brown suede coat with fur collar, suitable for any fashion plate, from Catherine Deneuve to Ruth Gordon. The discovery of this coat and subsequent discoveries restructured my experience of the Estate Sale. I don’t know where he went, but I never saw the fondler again. Emboldened by the suede coat, I went to the racks of clothes on the patio, hunting for vintage.
In addition to an intimate view of a stranger, I gleaned much from this sale: the suede coat (Sarah already has a matching one), plaid coatdress, blue knit dress, green velvet dress, black wool dress, green suede gloves. Surprisingly, the gloves were my most expensive purchase: $6, compared with $2 for each dress or coat. They all feature some wrinkles, some dirt, some minor need for repair, but are solidly constructed.
My new fall wardrobe. Wool, velvet, knit, fur: Autumn's timeless textures. Sure, a little shabby, but they'll clean up nicely.
Like this entry, my blog will be about yard sales, second hand shops, consignment, vintage. …I like the history of it all. Maybe she wore that wool dress to an awards luncheon. Maybe that table lamp was an engagement present. Maybe that ceramic cat was just fondled by an exposed stranger.
This content kitty is actually from the thrift shop at Salem Friends of Felines.
She shows no signs of abuse.
What does that mean? Well, once I had a spat with a mature woman as we both grabbed for an acorn-shaped fur hat. Triumphant, every once in a while I take it out of my closet and imagine wearing it while making a snowman with Ryan O’Neal. But what about something different? Last weekend, I had an experience that, while psychologically damaging, qualifies my attraction to estate sales…
I was in Salem, Oregon, visiting my best friend Sarah, who attends Willamette University. We have style; we love vintage.
After a Saturday successfully spent at a quirky vintage shop and bonding with kittens at Salem Friends of Felines, we were driving home. We turned on a picturesque street, bordered by the “not as sketchy” quadrant of Salem’s Bush Park. On the corner, a little yellow yard sign announced a distraction: Estate Sale. We followed.
Down the street. Around the park. There. A little house, some tents in the drive way, estate services professionals taking money and accessing “best offers.” The tables in the driveway presented a spread of telling goods: Black and white photographs, costume jewelry, newspapers, bold floral linens. My eyes were darting, blood pumping, fingers twitching. This house had belonged to old people.
We took the side entrance, from the carport into the house, ready to rifle through the lifetime accumulation of strangers. Sarah went ahead of me, up the stairs, to the right. Following, my eyes scanned for treasures: gold brocade club chair, blush-colored serving dishes. A man to my left absentmindedly fondled tchotchkes in a curio. My eyes continued tracking the scene: from the chairs to the wall hangings, to tchotchke guy.
When my eyes reassessed tchotchke guy, I discovered that his ardor for Estate Sales was far more literal than mine. Pants unbuttoned, he was exposed!
My Estate Sale goal index was reset. I prepared to bolt.
Sarah moved forward and away from the entrance, continuing to the back of the house. I went left, up a small flight of stairs. So violated. Like the vapid heroine of a horror film, I chastised myself for going upstairs, delving deeper into the house, further entrapping myself with the tchotchke fondler.
I backed down the stairs and proceeded through the circuit-style floor plan of the house, through a bedroom that smelled like baby powder and featured a stripped Tempur-Pedic adjustable bed, and into a well lit kitchen with a yellow Formica table. Where was he? Where was Sarah? Had she seen it too?! No, no. Surely we’d have left immediately. We should go. This is disturbing. Oooh? Is that a rack of vintage?
In a matter of moments, I was reunited with Sarah who was holding a brown suede coat with fur collar, suitable for any fashion plate, from Catherine Deneuve to Ruth Gordon. The discovery of this coat and subsequent discoveries restructured my experience of the Estate Sale. I don’t know where he went, but I never saw the fondler again. Emboldened by the suede coat, I went to the racks of clothes on the patio, hunting for vintage.
In addition to an intimate view of a stranger, I gleaned much from this sale: the suede coat (Sarah already has a matching one), plaid coatdress, blue knit dress, green velvet dress, black wool dress, green suede gloves. Surprisingly, the gloves were my most expensive purchase: $6, compared with $2 for each dress or coat. They all feature some wrinkles, some dirt, some minor need for repair, but are solidly constructed.My new fall wardrobe. Wool, velvet, knit, fur: Autumn's timeless textures. Sure, a little shabby, but they'll clean up nicely.
Like this entry, my blog will be about yard sales, second hand shops, consignment, vintage. …I like the history of it all. Maybe she wore that wool dress to an awards luncheon. Maybe that table lamp was an engagement present. Maybe that ceramic cat was just fondled by an exposed stranger.This content kitty is actually from the thrift shop at Salem Friends of Felines.She shows no signs of abuse.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
