When I was in grade school my Wednesday nights were spent begging my parents to let me skip my CCD class at our church to instead go with them to the evening auction. Every Wednesday night there was an auction that started around 5 or 6 pm. Of course, right at that particular time I had to go to my Catholicism classes. At 8:30, my mom would pick me up in time to go back to the auction house to meet my dad. On occasion, I wouldn't have class for the night, or in the months when classes weren't in session, I spent my evenings at the auction house, reading price guides about Barbie dolls and doing my homework on the folding chairs. Usually, we would finish a very late night filled with balding, corrective lens wearing, hard-nosed dealers, fixating their attention on various piles of unforeseen treasure hidden in cardboard trays.
After the last box lot was auctioned off, we would stop for a midnight treat at the Portillo's (it's a Chicago thing) adjacent to the auction house and fill up on greasy food before taking our treasures back home to marvel over. I remember digging through the boxes, finding things that were not previously seen, and smiling ear to ear about a particular piece that held my attention from the first time I laid eyes on it until the victorious moment when my dad outbid another dealer by a buck.
As the years progressed my parents purchased items and I keyed on a few specifics of my own. When we purchased at auctions, estate sales and flea markets, I took it upon myself to specialize in books and sheet music. I would research and price these items and stock our booths at local antique malls with my small additions. For most 10 year-olds I think it is safe to say that it was a lot easier to make a few bucks doing that than cutting lawns or getting a paper route!
During my mid teens my mom proposed that I expand my horizons and asked if I wanted to deal in vintage clothing. I agreed and thus.... a monster was born! Having already spent 16 years of my life immersed in a house that was furnished and always filling with antiquities the act of expanding my personal collections and entrepreneurial acquisitions towards vintage clothing fit like peanut butter in a Reese's cup. It just made sense.
Antiquing, collecting, hunting for items; it's an illness. It is a bug you catch at some point in your life and henceforth you will never quite "recover." For me, becoming a dealer seemed to be something inherent in me that has always come as naturally to me as breathing or any other involuntary action of which the human body is capable. I think that most dealers would agree that the urge to collect can only be described as an illness because it is habitual and compelling and it never seems to go into remissions; not that any of us would ever want that :)
With that said, I admit I have a problem, however, I embrace it. Hello, my name is Lindsay and I am a dealer and collector. I hope others embrace our "illness" as well so that we may comfortably share stories and knowledge together to better grasp and understand our lifestyles. Even with boxes of vintage goodies tucked under my bed, in my closet, basement, garage, and attic, I am okay, and you are, too. And last, for those of you who do not live like this, I hope I have offered an intimate glimpse into the heart and soul of a vintage clothing dealer.
Nice job!
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing your story!
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