“beauty in distress is much the most affecting beauty.” // e. burke
when i was sixteen there was nothing, but nothing that was more de rigueur than looking as if you inhabited the darkest of alleyways — a street urchin with well polished doc martens. it was the age of singles, of nevermind, and of looking as if bathing was optional.
you’ve probably sussed out by now that grunge-chic wasn’t really my thing – i was neat and tidy, with a short skirt and a proper fred perry, and okay fine, well-polished doc martens.
however, had you been looking for a properly mangled pair of jeans, and wanted none of the terrible boot-cut versions that were absolutely everywhere at that time; you would’ve headed directly to kensington market, prepared thyself for the deluge of patchouli stink and climbed the steps into the second-(third, fourth & maybe fifth)-hand shops that dotted the streets between the butchers and fruit stalls.
there you would find the well-worn gussets of other peoples’ shredded jeans, your uncle’s plaids from the 70s and your gran’s flannels. my mother would turn up her nose, not allow anything else to be washed along with any item i would bring home; and then i would try and never-ever think about the strange many bottoms that had shared the seats of those jeans.
those were good times/disgusting times?
now, you can still buy vintage, but the prices seem oddly on par to a slew of newly minted garments that are only made to look like they’ve been weathered and worn; of course, the benefit of these items is that yours will be the first arse to be wedged into them.
my question is, will they too be ruined the moment the spin cycle starts?
➝ source : doris distressed tank top via iro
➝ source : jeans via r13
➝ source : striped shirt dress via sea