Bargain Basement

I upcycle cashmere. I thrift it used or, better, clients give it to me in exchange for a credit.  They buy a multi-hued handmade poncho with their old sweaters.  Or fingerless gloves, or scarves, or hats (for a critical time, even pussy hats).  This was an outgrowth of my greed for the sumptuous textile and my inability to pay full price for it. Years ago, in my thrift store travels, I started finding cashmere sweaters.  Occasionally, I’d luck out and they’d be in good condition.  Usually, they had holes or stains or pills.  But I’d run my fingers over that downy luxury and think, “Couldn’t I do something with this?”  And so a (cottage) industry was born.

I’m gifted at making something out of nothing.  Just about every place I’ve ever lived has been an underwhelming box (some super underwhelming - complete with rats, termites, scorpions, used needles AND used condoms).  I’ve cleaned that box, painted that box, and filled that box with accumulated furnishings, most of which I either inherited (probably too fancy a word for taking what no one else wanted) or found at a flea market or bought at IKEA (or sometimes IKEA via craigslist - used IKEA, people) or straight-up pulled from the street.  The result is  magical, every time.  It ends up looking like a million bucks and it costs approximately seventy-five cents.

My parents were raised in the depression and thrift was a daily part of my childhood.  Sometimes that went so far as my mother not buying quite enough meat for dinner (this from the wife of a Marin doctor - old habits die hard).  I was raised to be conscious of resources (“Turn out the light when you leave the room!” “Why are you standing there with the refrigerator open?” “Who turned the heat up past 65?” “Wait, how much did that dress cost?”). I still live in fear of over-spending (though I often do).  Even with savings in the bank (and twenty years of paying my mortgage on time) I often wonder idly about foreclosure.

Of course, our relationships to money are emotional - and often about much more than a number in an account.  Money represents, at least for me, ease, but more importantly, safety. Somewhere in my psyche I believe that if I have enough money I am immune to harm.  Not true, of course - I know a lot of monetarily wealthy folks who struggle emotionally as much as I do if not more.   But it feels true, at least to me.

There are times when I take what I can get, for money or love - a difficult client with a tantalizing project, a charming rogue of a boyfriend with a habit of disappearing, a friend who talks much more than they listen.  And I do this because, on some level, I don’t believe I can do better or that I deserve to.  I’ll take the discount rack, the dusty estate sale, the dude who’s maybe a little mean.  Because I can’t afford more.

I love working within limitations.  My favorite project is one where there isn’t a lot to spend, where re-use is essential, where there’s a tight frame.  That’s when we get creative.  But there’s a line between thrift and the feeling of not having enough.  Thrift is a captivating puzzle.  Want is a soul-destroyer.  

I was a latch-key kid growing up in a remote mountain neighborhood.  When I did get the chance to be with friends, or really anyone, I was so grateful. But that meant that I’d put up with just about anything to be in the warmth of human company; sketchy unsupervised hijinx, questionable adults, bullies.  I enjoy my time alone now, and I can be with people I love pretty much whenever I want, but that stray dog gratitude is still in me, it still translates.  I know what’s it’s like to be alone in the cold and I figure I have to be on my best behavior to keep that from happening.

I make do with scraps.  Yes, sometimes those scraps are cashmere, sometimes they’re the frumpy house on the beautiful block, sometimes they’re men who are intelligent, handsome, successful (and explosive).  White girl scraps, for sure, but scraps all the same. I take what my peers don’t want or can’t envision being good.  And if I can, I make whatever it is great.

But I have this image of myself as a small girl, maybe four or five, huddled under the dining table (which I still had until very recently).  My family is eating above me and I’m waiting for bits to drop down, morsels that will be my dinner.  To be clear, nothing like that ever happened.  But I can see it.  And I can feel it.

I’d rather live from a place of wealth, of abundance.  It doesn’t have to be monetary (though I wouldn’t argue). I’d like to walk through my world believing that I have enough, that I am enough, that I’m safe.  I’d like to stop building beautiful cakes out of crumbs.  I don’t want to sacrifice my talent for bargain-hunting, for repurposing, for rebuilding.  But I would like to stop selling myself short.  Wheeling and dealing in the real world?  Excellent.  Striking an emotional bargain?  There never was such a thing.  I’ll take the second-hand cashmere, the vintage jeans, even the free couch.  But the rest, the difficult people, the fraught situations, the fear, I’ll leave by the side of the road.