Dear Drastic Plastic readers, it's Barbara from Momographica here. How is your summer going so far? In Italy weather is unbelievably hot during this season and I am seeking refuge in my own little study, with a powerful air conditioner and a glass of ice tea as my new best friends.
I must make a confession: for a photographer like me, vintage markets are a shangri-la if you are looking for some interesting piece to add to your model's styling or eccentric last minute new entries to the composition.
There is a little truth behind the obscure title of this post: last Sunday I visited a vintage fair in my town which promised to be awesome so I waited so far because I wanted to share with all the Drastic Plastic readers an amazing experience in the reign of antique clothes. But what I thought to be something lovely to share turned out to be anything but amazing. What a cruel world we live in! Bad, me and my never-ending trust into anything which smells vintage.
When I arrived at the place on late Sunday morning I had been welcomed by a small but ridiculously expensive selection of clothes and accessories, two or three old fashioned cars and a small group of (not vintage) children playing in the gardens of the building. The small selection of stalls mainly displayed pieces that were extravagant enough to come out from the closet of my great-grandma but in the worst condition and most of them costing nearly a fortune. It spoke clearly that vintage was being introduced as a mass of ugly, overpriced pieces that have nothing to do with those you find on magazines or tumblr blogs. You can imagine my disappointment.
When I lived in London I had been lucky enough to be located in Brick Lane and the Sunday vintage markets were absolutely delightful. Since then I got the habit to visit vintage markets whenever is possible. And in London, vintage was something quite unique and wherever you could find a good piece for a good price. In my place this seems an impossible task.