What I found in an abandoned factory...
Discovering rare vintage clothing among the discarded.
I arrive around 11AM on a Saturday. It’s mid September, and the dregs of summer are in the air. As I pull up beside the great brick building, nestled along the city’s edge by the railroad tracks, I feel the familiar bout of butterflies that are guaranteed to start swarming any time I am on the hunt in unfamiliar territory.
An industrial metal door stands open at the entrance. I pass the threshold and am met with the sound of voices echoing in a large room to my left.
“Hello, I’m here for the vintage clothing!”
The friendly faces of a man and woman greet me.
“There are some piled on the floor in here, but most of it is on the second floor. There is a nice yellow wool coat that reminded me of Doris Day. I’ll show you.”
We climb the dark staircase encased in the center of the building. Piles of trash and boxes line the wide aisle and wrap along the curved walls - a unique architectural detail that was brought to my attention. We stop on the second landing. Two enormous rooms flank us left and right, tall multi-paned windows allow for an abundance of natural light to stream in.
I’m led into the room to the left. A vintage wedding dress hangs from a nail on the wall like a picturesque ghost from the past. Doris' Day’s cheery yellow coat lay atop a cardboard box, riddled with moth holes of varying sizes.
“I wouldn’t go past here.”
Half of the floor had collapsed, and I’ve been instructed not to tempt fate. I see clothing hanging in a room that could no longer be safely accessed. I wonder what treasures have been left there to rot.
“They are going to turn the building into lofts, they wanted to leave the collapsed part open and surround it in glass - like a green house.”
I mention it would be nice to plant a tree in the center of the courtyard below, imagining the space it would have to grow over decades.
The man leaves the way we came, and I immediately shift my attention to the contents of the room. There is an overwhelming amount of debris, boxes, furniture, trash bags stuffed with unknown contents, large fabric carts, books, and scattered papers - all covered in a toxic confetti of dust and flecks of paint from the peeling ceiling.
I decide to take the easiest available path, and begin digging through garment boxes and a wardrobe that had been packed with the closet of an unassuming couple in the 1980s. Finding nothing of particular interest, I move on to other boxes and bags filled with sheets and more clothing.
Bingo! We have now entered the 1970s! I grin while I pull a cheeky graphic tee out of a garbage bag.
Like a shark who smells a drop of blood in the ocean, finding a single item that sparks my interest quickly divulges into a feeding frenzy. I know there must be more.
I move on to a pile of boxes sitting by the wedding gown. I dig near the bottom of one box and score… 1960s knit polos! Two of the best I’ve ever found, with colorways I can only dream exist.
My heart rate begins to climb while I finish rummaging through the rest of the room. As my pile grows, I realize I left my trusty Ikea bag in the car. I’m too deep in picker’s mania to retrieve it, so I dump out a cardboard box full of papers and shove the goods inside. Among them is a deadstock 1970s green bell bottom jumpsuit and an adorable brown cotton set. I’m stoked to find top and bottom still together after all these years.
By this point my head is spinning, and it dawns on me that there is another room on this floor I have yet to explore. Speed walking, I pass the staircase and enter the room on the right side of the building. It is dark, expansive, and littered with mid century modern couches and chairs. This territory is twice the size of the previous - due to the fact that half of the floor had not suffered collapse.
I soon realize I’m not the only one looking through the building’s refuse, an elderly woman with a flashlight is picking through stacks of old books. Lacking the air flow of a gaping hole, this room is noticeably dustier, and she coughs as she makes herself a pile. I wave to her and say hello. She remarks that she wishes she would have brought a mask along with her, as dust clouds swirl in the beam of the flashlight. I had come (moderately) prepared with a cloth mask and gloves.
As I turn away from her, I notice a mound of clothing sitting on an old desk along the far wall. Since I have company, I try to ignore my hyper-vigilance and avoid digging through it like a rabid animal. I calmly move through the items as I manage to maintain small talk, telling her I buy vintage clothing.
“My grand-daughter loves to dress retro! I saw a pretty little beaded purse near the door, did you see that one?”
The stack on the desk produces a few interesting pieces, including a 1960s black and white abstract polka dot mod dress. My pile is quickly growing and I’ve only scratched the surface area of the building.
“I’m looking for vintage books to read to my grand-kids, I don’t mind if the story is bad - just the pictures can be good. I can make up the story.”
I notice a box filled with folded clothes in the darkness behind the desk. I pull out my phone to use as a flashlight and begin emptying it piece by piece. The contents of the box have been sitting undisturbed for so long they have the rigidity of cardboard.
From the top of the box I pull out pieces that barely resemble 1960s pants, their patterns, buttons, and zippers the only clues to their identity. I unfold a plaid pair to get a better look, its stiff as a board, light as a feather, and appears so shrunken I assume they’re kids size.
Next appear a few button up shirts from the 1970s, while I lift them out of the box and set them aside I spot a print that looks intriguing. It takes a couple seconds for my eyes to adjust and recognize the pattern that is displayed in filth before me. What I see shocks me. It can’t be.
“Holy fucking shit…” I whisper to myself.
I’m stunned. I’m beside myself. I feel like I’m being Punked. I look around the room, ready to see the cameras. I reach my gloved hand into the moldy box and pull out a piece of fabric printed with the iconic Baron Wolman Woodstock crowd photograph.
Finding a piece made from this fabric has been on my bucket list for years, I truthfully never thought I would see the day - especially not this day!
I unfold the mummified square and like magic the fabric transforms into a pair of pants. At this point my euphoria is to the ceiling. If I was searching this warehouse like a hound before, I have reached full blood thirsty status. What other treasures await?
By now the woman looking for the books is in another part of the building, and I have full reign over the spacious room. My pile has grown so large the small box will no longer suffice. I find an empty cardboard garment box and throw my loot inside.
I scan the room with radar-like precision, walking up and down the aisles of rejected objects, digging through boxes and bags in search of anything resembling cloth. My body becomes a vessel for nothing more than finding vintage clothing.
The building has a variety of strange motifs. My flashlight illuminates a small pitch black room filled with large rolls of brown paper - atop them sits a floral chaise lounge that the rats have found quite comfortable.
In the early 1900s, the building served as a factory for the Allen & Rutherford company - a denim overall and workwear manufacturing business. The woman who I arranged visiting the space with was historically tied to it, her grandmother employed as a sewist in the factory’s early years. She worked long hot days, wrestling with heavy rolls of uncut denim, turning them into finished garments.
After the factory closed the warehouse was used by a moving and storage company, the contents left inside the building unclaimed by it’s patrons. From what I can tell, every object in the building pre-dates the 1990s, with a majority of them being from the 1970s and earlier.
I weave my way through the room, and happen upon approximately 20 black contractor bags stuffed and tied. Without hesitation I squeeze their sides, hoping to get an idea for the contents inside. The first couple I knead feel like hard goods, then I stumble on one that is soft and squishy. Now we’re talking!
Riding the Woodstock high, I quickly bring my shaking hands to the knot at the top of the bag. Whoever tied this thing basically booby trapped it, and I’m having difficulty getting the knot undone. In my junk drunk craze, I take the sides of the bag and rip as hard as I can. A plume of dust and unknown toxins rush into the air as it’s guts spill out.
I’m having a hard time deciphering what I am looking at. Everything is so filthy and chewed by rats, much of it no longer resembles anything identifiable. I continue to empty the bag and find dolls, stuffed animals, clumps of fabric, Christmas cards addressed to Daddy, hair rollers, and children’s drawings - all mixed together in a soiled heap that looks as if it was shoveled off the factory floor and stuffed into the plastic. I start to feel overwhelmed by sadness, looking at the remnants of a child’s life forgotten and left to decay. The occupational hazards of a vintage dealer.
I rip open another bag and I’m greeted with a second plume of poison, this cloth mask isn’t cutting it, my nose running and eyes itching as I cough and try to hold my breath until the particles settle.
This bag proves more fruitful, though as dirty as the last, as I uncover mangled and disintegrating clothing from the 1960s and 1970s. A glimmer of hope is enough to keep me going and I rip open bag after bag in search of anything salvageable. I find a surprising amount of pieces I believe I can rescue including a carpet tapestry vest, a pop art tee, some colorful knits, and novelty printed pieces.
With four bags left I throw in the towel, deciding I’ve already shaved enough of my life span off with the amount of dust circling around me. Not to mention I’m utterly exhausted, drenched in sweat, panting, and still have two floors to explore.
I drag my heavy garment box to the stairwell and run up to the third floor. I’m quickly rewarded! I discover three pairs of 1970s pants - all with a hard to find 50 in waist. Among them is a pair of deadstock broadfall trousers with their original paper tag!
The room is not unlike the second floor - mattresses, lamps, antique glass display cases, quilts, dressers and more bags and boxes litter the original hardwood. Several large rusted metal fans line the back wall, which served as a way to help circulate air in the summer months. The ceilings of the building have electrical outlets at 10 foot intervals, all that remains of the sewing stations from it’s days producing workwear. The third floor delivers it’s own unusual motifs - I spy a landscape print of an ocean sitting on an old wooden chair, just waiting for me to snap a photo.
As I wrap up my search I peel a gray 1970s pocket tee shirt from it’s sanctum on the floor in front of the large windows, decades of light providing the perfect sun fade.
Worn out and satisfied, I call it a day. I take several trips up and down the curved hall of the staircase to load all of my spoils into the trunk of my car. Three hours in the books on one of the coolest picks of my life! I count my blessings, beaming with pride and luck.
In a unexpected turn of events, six days after this blissful day, I end up losing most of the inventory I sourced to the flood that destroyed nearly all of my vintage business.
But as luck would have it, the pieces that you see in this essay were squirreled away, as they needed much more attention to bring them back to life. The vintage that managed to avoid total destruction feels all the more special to me, and it has been rewarding bringing it up to spec for it’s new owners to enjoy.
If you see something you need in your life, all the previewed vintage will be available in our web shop on November 29th at 12 o-clock eastern!
Thank you for being here, and I hope you enjoyed reading this story half as much as I enjoyed living it. See you on the Passage Keeper web shop November 29th!
XOXO,
Kari
I was looking for posts about abandoned buildings and happened upon this. What evocative photos - sounds like an incredible experience.
Those striped polos 😍 What a cool adventure in search of vintage treasures — i wish I could have checked it out myself!