The Social Life of Secondhand Clothes

“Thinking about how we mourn artists we’ve never met. We don’t cry because we knew them, we cry because they helped us know ourselves.”

Thus Juliette@ElusiveJ on Twitter so eloquently put it. I’ve been thinking about this quote all weekend, as I binge-listen to Purple Rain and favorite songs like “7” and “Raspberry Beret” (the kind you find in a secondhand store). I listen and remember how Prince and the 1980s Minneapolis scene rocked me through my young adulthood.

I won the Purple Rain album at my high school senior prom. I remember dancing with abandon to “Let’s Go Crazy” in a peach-colored lace tea-length dress (a retro 1950s-style). When I saw the film Purple Rain (movies came later than soundtrack albums to rural North Dakota), I was fascinated with the urban scenes – First Avenue, Lake Minnetonka (actually, Cedar Lake playing the role of Lake Minnetonka), and the Crystal Court of IDS Center. When I arrived in Minneapolis in Fall 1985 for college, I was so excited to explore the city. I’d go dancing with friends at First Avenue. I’d scan the dark edges of the club, hoping to see Prince for the first 10 minutes I was there, and then I’d forget all about celebrity sighting. The multi-colored lights flashed, the beat pounded,  and I would dance with friends, feeling like we were somewhere.

The 1980s Minneapolis of my memory has a lavender glow. The neighborhood around First Avenue had more character then with its dive bars like Moby Dicks, or nearby Shinders with its comic books and enormous magazine section. We would visit the Chain of Lakes in the wee hours of the morning (usually Lake Calhoun), whispering and giggling, feeling transgressive. I would also go on urban explorations alone, walking in the early morning from Augsburg College in the Cedar Riverside neighborhood to Nicollet Mall in downtown. I walked along the Mississippi almost daily, and to the old Dinkytown (before it became a sea of student housing) on a weekly basis. I’d check out nearly every free concert and local festival. I learned how to be an independent, curious, confident young woman then, and part of what inspired my urban and personal exploration was the fantasy Minneapolis depicted in Purple Rain.

The Minneapolis vintage scene has always been great, but in my memory it was a wonderland then. Just blocks from Augsburg was a funky store called Intermezzo with rubber duckies, vintage clothing, and odd apartment furnishings. Tatters opened a record shop and vintage store further down on Cedar. The Tatters location in Uptown was often graced by visits from his Purple Highness. The Ragstock Warehouse was a bit further away on Washington Avenue (when Washington was filled mostly with empty warehouses rather than today’s colossal condos). I’d rummage through barrels of clothes, pulling out satin pajamas, silk kimonos, 40s peplum jackets, old military uniforms, acrylic sweaters adorned with ribbons. Vintage was about trying on different characters for me then. I could be a 40s secretary, a 50s sock-hopper, a 60s go-go girl, a 70s bohemian. Did I want to be smart? Sweet? Assertive? Blase´? My wardrobe was eclectic to reflect my changing moods and identity experiments.

I’ve been realizing this weekend that I haven’t been anywhere near as adventurous in exploring the city I live in as I was back then. And that situation needs to be rectified because life is too short to not appreciate what’s around you. Prince’s death has reminded me that it’s important to stoke that sense of wonder and curiosity. I’m sad our favorite hometown boy is gone and that I’ll never experience a Prince sighting. But I’m thankful that he put Minneapolis on the international map as a place where cool could happen and that he’s inspired me reconnect with that place and with my younger sense of self.