The Death of Provo Thrifting (and How to Resurrect it)
About a year ago, I visited the Goodwill Outlet in Salt Lake City, also known as the ever-alluring Bins. The Bins is a place of pilgrimage for the Provo thrifter, serving as the headwaters of every Goodwill location downstream. It is a place full of raw and unfiltered potential, and its reputation has rapidly spread. I arrived on the hour, just in time for a bin switch. Every shopper was corralled behind a yellow line on the floor as employees took away the picked-over bins and replaced them with new ones, heaped with clothing concealed by large quilts and blankets. The atmosphere became electric with the possibilities of what lay under those coverings. The crowd fell quiet, furtively whispering and pointing at bins that seemed promising. It felt oddly archaic—ritualistic, even. The concealed clothing, the employees holding back a crowd of restless pickers, a manager counting down from ten... When zero was reached, the employees scrambled out of the way of the horde.
A stampede is the closest way of describing the scene. Shoving and arguments began over a pair of Carhartt carpenter pants. I barely dug through half a bin before pickers swarmed my position. They stripped my bin of anything remotely interesting and continued to the next victim. Once the initial madness subsided, the pickers brought their hauls to carts already stacked high with clothing, usually with one person guarding the stash. Those stalwart guardians also held the duty of frantically looking up the price that each item was fetching on eBay and Depop, finding what was worth reselling and what should be chucked back into the bins for the scavengers to snatch up.
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As one must inevitably notice, Provo’s fashion scene (and Utah’s in general) is in the grip of a vintage and thrifted clothing wave. The ’90s have returned in full force. Anyone who’s anybody seems to have baggy jeans, overly designed graphic t-shirts, and itchy sweaters paired with the modern fixtures of crossbody bags and Doc Martens. At first glance, this seems like a much-needed, albeit small, win against capitalism. There is a rebellious spirit to thrifting, as its practitioners reject the ethically dubious fast fashion of major department stores in favor of the used and discarded. However, while still moral leagues above other forms of fashion consumption, the current incarnation of Provo thrifting has become corrupted. The Bins, once a sacred and connective place, is now a vicious hunting ground—and it's not just a problem with the Bins. Thrifting in general is no longer about finding that one piece that speaks to you; it has become a gold rush wherein prospectors hope to strike rich.
In my opinion, thrifting’s accessibility and morality are its most alluring qualities. Every other form of fashion thrives on creating a distinction between the upper and lower classes. The trendiest name brands and styles communicate social status and wealth, as they are only accessible to those with high levels of disposable income. However, the increased popularity of thrifting has removed the barrier of affordability and made high fashion accessible to a larger community. Thrifting blurs class distinctions and bridges divides.
Thrifting also rages against the constant production of the latest fast fashion trends. Fashion, now more than ever, is obsessed with newness. Micro-trends call for the wasteful overproduction of textiles, the cost of which is a constant exploitation of vulnerable people and the environment. With thrifting, you avoid monetarily supporting corporations that take advantage of relaxed labor and conservation laws.
If you’ll allow me to get sappy for a bit, I’d even say that there is a spiritual connection inherent to thrifting. When you purchase a piece of thrifted clothing, the trace of the item’s previous owner is present. This trace could take the form of a faded graphic, sun-washed shoulders, a bleach stain, a sloppily stitched tear. The piece may even seem pristine but still harbor a sort of energy imbued by someone else. When you wear that piece, you feel connected to someone you’ll probably never meet or know. Who owned this shirt? What memories have they experienced in it? Why was this shirt worn, loved, and discarded? In particular cases, you may even feel that a piece was always meant for you, that it traveled many miles and aged many years just to fall into your hands today. The sometimes long and arduous search for these destined pieces results in finds meant only for you. This connection serves as a reminder of the humanity behind clothing and exemplifies what makes thrifting so special. It stands in direct contrast to buying new clothing, clothing devoid of human wear and energy, clothing devoid of life.
I thoroughly believe that thrifting is, at its core, an emancipatory and connective experience. This is why my experience at the Bins, along with other recent observations, has been so disturbing. I feel like we have lost what makes thrifting so special. The untapped rebellious energy of Provo’s thrifting scene is being siphoned out to fuel capitalistic endeavors.
Nowhere is this siphoning clearer than in the curated resale scene. Every day, it seems like a new thrift shop full of trendy, handpicked clothing arrives on the scene. The pieces at these stores often fetch absurdly high prices. Now, I’m not suggesting that these places are morally bankrupt. Supporting small businesses will always be preferable to supporting large corporations. These curated stores and pop-ups still allow for an escape from the loop of consuming newly minted clothing; however, the true egalitarian spirit of thrifting has been lost within them. One of the most messianic qualities of thrifting is its ability to lower the monetary requirements of participating in fashion. By focusing on brands and styles that fetch inflated prices, these stores and online resellers reinstate the monetary bar of participating in fashion. Thrifting now creates the class distinction that it initially destroyed.
Even fast fashion itself now wears a vintage mask. Companies such as PacSun have begun selling clothing explicitly manufactured to look used. The BYU Store has taken a similar approach to some of its most recent t-shirt designs. Now, items and looks originally associated with anti-establishment sympathies have been appropriated by the establishments themselves. There are no more frantic searches that result in finding a special piece, not when you can find hundreds of trendy retro pieces readily available on a rack. These companies remove the meaningful search endemic to thrifting and replace it with a shallow mockery of vintage tropes.
So, are thrifting’s benevolent qualities dead and gone, lying in a tomb sealed by a boulder? Popularizing any clothing, especially in an economy driven by brand recognition, will almost always lead to inflated prices and class distinction. It's simple supply and demand. This is how the world works. There’s no ethical consumption under capitalism, right?
Wrong. I refuse to leave thrifting for dead, not with its immense potential. I now extend an invitation to consider your clothing consumption outside of the lens of capitalism. When buying used clothing, avoid grabbing pieces for a simple brand name, and limit your cart size. We’re all guilty of it, and it can be hard to separate ourselves from it. But just try. I think you’ll find yourself buying pieces for better reasons, ones that speak to your unique fashion identity. You may even find a piece that connects you to some past person, creating an incredibly personal trans-spatial and transtemporal connection.
Next time you get that thrifting itch, I encourage you to branch out from the places that aggressively monetize and organize used clothing. Try supporting some of our local clothing exchanges. Salt Lake Community Mutual Aid regularly holds a Really Really Free Market, where used clothing is completely free. In fact, Prodigal Press will be holding one on Saturday, April 19. Markets like these help us divorce clothing’s value from its monetary exchange rate. This is also a great place to donate clothing, so you know it will stay out of landfills and price-gouging eBay storefronts. I would also suggest gifting your used clothing to those you’re close to, hopefully creating a network of friends that destroys the isolating experience of buying clothing today. If these options aren’t available, support local yard and estate sales, or maybe even set one up yourself. And when your clothing eventually wears out, don’t immediately throw it away; instead, you can continue to cherish the piece by transforming it into something new. Old clothing can make fantastic cleaning rags, blankets, sewing patches, and more. Focusing on thrifting as an act of sustainability, generosity, and community-building will be the first steps toward its resurrection.
That day at the Bins was certainly discouraging, but it wasn’t wholly irredeemable. Despite the swarms of resellers that immediately grabbed all of the usual suspects, I managed to find a piece completely overlooked. It was an unbranded green t-shirt, bearing a simple, worn illustration of an alligator (not Lacoste, I swear). The shoulders were sun-faded. Bleach had burned yellowish stains into the back. In the left armpit, a tear was sloppily stitched with white thread. I felt an immediate pull to that piece and the person who wore it before me. It was loved before, for simple reasons, and that love was woven into the wear and stains and stitching. I feel that love and continue to pour love into it. I can only hope the next owner will do the same.