My love for secondhand clothing started long before sustainability was a mainstream topic. I bought my first vintage pieces at Milton’s, an old department store in Winnipeg, Canada. They were from the 1940s—an old warehouse full of treasure. I didn’t buy them because they were “sustainable.” I bought them because they sparked something in me. I loved fashion, and it didn’t matter where the clothes came from as long as they made me feel something. But now, of course, it does matter where clothes come from. It matters where everything comes from. That awareness creeps in slowly, and then it becomes impossible to ignore. Once you’ve seen the conditions behind certain products—the waste, the labour issues, the impact—you can’t unsee it. You can’t unlearn it. And you can’t pretend your choices are neutral. Asking, “Who made my clothes?” isn’t just a slogan—it’s a responsibility. Over the decades, I’ve bought plenty of new things too—fashion is part of my world, and creativity sometimes means indulging in something fresh. But every time I’ve moved house, bags of clothing have gone off to charity shops. It was a cycle I didn’t fully question until one moment changed the way I approached consumption entirely. I remember making my first big “adult” purchase: a custom-built couch. I agonised over the fabric, the colour, the shape. I felt such pride knowing it was something I’d have for life. Or so I thought. A few months later, I moved to England and gave the couch away. All that money, all that material, all that energy—gone. That was the moment I vowed never to buy another piece of new furniture again. Not out of guilt, but out of awareness. I realised I didn’t want to participate in that cycle anymore.
a.co11ective
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