Discovering the Ghosts of Seoul’s Past
As I set out for Seoul’s Dongmyo outdoor market on a chilly Sunday morning, the city streets were tranquil and silent. The empty food stalls, covered in clear tarpaulins, stood waiting for the day’s cooking to begin, while trucks unloaded crates of fresh seafood. There’s a ghostly quality to a city not quite awake yet, and that’s precisely what I was in pursuit of that day.
You see, the objective of thrifting, at least from this self-professed expert’s perspective, is not to walk away with an armful of bargains. No, my goal is to connect with the past and understand society as it once was. After all, rummaging through the detritus of consumerism can reveal the essence of human desire – what the world once prized, what it still prizes, and the sheer magnitude of our collective consumption.
In a world where the scale of all we consume and create has tipped the scales so destructively, this knowledge holds immense power. And so, with an open mind, I ventured into the bustling Dongmyo market, ready to uncover the ghosts of Seoul’s past.
Navigating the Dongmyo Flea Market
As soon as I arrived at Dongmyo, I was blinded by the glare of light reflecting off the stalls. Stand after stand was covered in secondhand wristwatches, glassware, and electronic devices, with the occasional fun oddity like realistic-fake Japanese restaurant displays. Extracting a single pair of spectacles from the tangled mass on one table looked like a nightmare in itself.
Amused, I roughly dated the various items, certain that some of the beat-up rice cookers and appliances stretched back to the early 80s. Part of me felt a pang of sadness, knowing that most of these quaint objects had reached the end of their lifespan, destined for parts-salvaging or the landfill, their value limited even to a thrift addict like myself.
As the writer Ryan Sng aptly observed, “Everything was once new, especially the mundane objects from our past.” While products may be frozen in the era from which they came, when they first emerged, society’s vision of the future was infused in their shapes, colors, and even physical composition. The unpleasant feature of built-in obsolescence, where things have an implied use-by date even if they still function, has always been a hallmark of capitalism.
But as I scanned the stalls, I was convinced there was beauty to be salvaged – perhaps a pleated chiffon day dress or a cotton cutwork blouse. That is, until I made my way to the garment section.
The Depressing Reality of Dongmyo’s Clothing Piles
As I approached the clothing stalls, my heart sank. Ryan Sng’s words rang true: “Clothes were tipped into inglorious floor piles, and it’s not that they were monumentally huge or anything – what surprised me instead was the utter lack of reverence in the entire setup.”
Elderly regulars and curious visitors like myself poked through the ugly mounds, unable to discern much without getting down on all fours. People trod on the piles and shifted clothes about with their feet, hoping to uncover something worth the effort of a crouching inspection. It was a depressing affair overall.
But just as I was about to give up, a flash of lace caught my eye. I dove in like a hawk and emerged triumphant, holding a navy lace-collar mini dress with dainty cream flowers and long sleeves. Judging by the seam finishes and overall construction, it was a retro-inspired piece from the early-to-mid 2000s, not true vintage.
As a designer by training, I couldn’t help but observe the gradual decline in clothing quality from the 80s onwards. What distinguishes a sloppily made vintage garment from a relatively new fast fashion piece is the care label. In the past, they would have been mostly monolingual, signaling the clothing’s intentionally narrow domestic audience, and may have even hinted at local manufacture. Nowadays, multilingual care labels indicate the huge international market they’re intended for.
Fast fashion, with its enormous quantities of a single item and the unfeasibility of correcting production mistakes, has driven prices down and desensitized consumers to proper construction. As I made my way back to my hotel in Seoul, I couldn’t help but reflect on the implications of this vicious cycle.
Exploring the Edited Vintage Offerings
After about half an hour of rummaging through the Dongmyo market, I decided it was time to move on. Near the stalls and on adjacent streets, there were several establishments that also sold secondhand clothing. Their proximity to the depressing floor piles was no coincidence – it’s likely that the majority of their stock was sourced from the same heaps.
However, these were edited selections, displayed more appealingly and consequently commanding higher prices. I was particularly drawn to a store that was filled with vintage work-wear, which I’d seldom had the chance to examine up-close. You can discern a lot about a location’s economic history from its vintage offerings, and Seoul’s decades as a world-class shipbuilder and automobile manufacturer were evident in the racks and racks of authentic industrial gear.
Having always secretly desired a work-wear jumpsuit, I acquired an appealing moss green number for close to 40 Singaporean dollars, which I’ve now worn on several occasions, ironically paired with heeled sandals and ballet flats.
Specialized Vintage Enclaves
The further I wandered from the main flea market strip, the more specialized each vendor’s wares became. One store specialized in vintage Burberry and London Fog rainwear, while another traded almost exclusively in biker and American military gear – a clear sign of the U.S. military’s long presence on the Korean peninsula.
At the latter, a well-preserved full-body leather motorcycle suit from the 1950s featured an astonishing level of detail, while a battered pair of WWII-era aviator trousers blew my mind. Padded and weighing close to 10 kilos, the trousers had two zips running all the way up the front legs, the function of which I still don’t understand. The stall-keepers generously allowed me to photograph these extraordinary pieces, as well as their tags, for research purposes.
The Emotional Dimension of Thrifting
Lest you think my thrifting habits are purely analytical, let me assure you that there’s an emotional dimension to the experience as well. You get hit hard with the feels when you realize that your own childhood has crossed over the Great Vintage Rainbow Bridge.
In a cramped little shop, the sight of a cropped sleeve, zippered 2000s jacket literally made me tear up. That time, or any past time really, as we knew it is gone now. Recreations may imitate, but never replicate the moment. One could choose to look upon this fact wistfully, or instead appreciate the ephemerality of everything, making the choice to live in the moment more fully.
And after a morning of thrifting fun, what I looked forward to the most was a delicious lunch, my footsteps following the faint aroma of fried chicken. As I made my way back to my hotel, I couldn’t help but feel a deeper connection to the city, its past, and the fleeting nature of all that we hold dear.
