Take a second to think. How do you define the word “sustainable”?
There are no right and wrong answers to that question. Is this a problem? Maybe not — subjectivity and the ability to see the world in a unique way is something that we regularly celebrate through artistry of all kinds.
But it does make trying to be a sustainable consumer very, very confusing.
Buying second-hand has often been lauded by environmentalists as a be-all-and-end-all solution to the fast fashion problem. But within that lies a number of hidden pitfalls.
A case and example from my own experience: I recently purchased a pair of trousers second-hand from a store through depop. They were advertised as “vintage”, made from a fabric that “feels like viscose”, and conveniently were in the exact style I had been searching for after an old pair of my trousers had begun to completely fall apart.
So I hit purchase, content that I was following my own principles and buying something that aligned with my vision of sustainable clothing.
And then the trousers arrived.
Quick sidebar: this an observation and is by no means intended to be a criticism of the depop sellers, as they successfully fulfilled their role in the transaction and have not acted outside of their contractual obligation.
Upon arrival I went to check the brand label to see if I could find the original company that made these trousers, more out of interest than anything else. But the label wasn’t there. In fact, any mention of the brand whatsoever had been entirely removed from the trousers, presumably prior to their resale. And so I grew a little curious.
Removing labels is a tactic that comes from many speculative origins. Fashion companies who sell or give bulk stock of unsold items to second-hand retailers will cut out labels so that the garments can’t be re-sold and then returned to the original shop (much like a chocolate bar that has “multipack bar not for resale” printed on the side).
In some cases, label cutting can be used by thrift stores and vintage shops — usually the larger ones; think vintage warehouses and kilo sales — so that people cannot question the origins of a product. For a piece of clothing to be considered vintage by official definitions, it must be at least 20 years old. Some second-hand retailers are now finding their stores inundated with people’s River Island garms or Topshop outfits purchased in 2015 and rapidly discarded as they went out of fashion, meaning that their coveted status as a “vintage store” hangs in the balance.
These more modern clothes can generally be dated by the stylization of their logos, since even Topshop’s logo has changed pretty regularly since the year 2001. They are also a relatively unattractive purchase for customers perusing a second-hand sale. Imagine turning up to a vintage store and all you can find is H&M clothing from 2008. It might be cheap but it doesn’t give you that “vintage illusion” that so many people are seeking.
By cutting out the labels people buying these clothes don’t immediately know that:
a) they’re buying second-hand fast fashion, which may be of considerably lower quality than actual vintage fashion, and
b) that what they’re buying may not, in fact, actually classify as vintage.
I can’t tell you what the reason for removing the label in the particular pair of trousers I bought was, so I’m not going to go around accusing any individuals here, but for the reasons stated above it made me wary of my purchase.
I decided to check the care label to see if that could garner any more information on the origins of these trousers, and found that the entire thing was written in Chinese. So we can assume that it’s likely they were at least originally retailed in South East Asia.
This presents its own problems, as from the style of the trousers I’m beginning to think it’s unlikely they’re from the pre-2000 era, especially considering that the “vintage style” has seen such a resurgence in the last few years. There’s every possibility these have been made in a fast fashion factory.
At this point I’m still willing to give the benefit of the doubt, but even in the best case they’ve had to be shipped from China to the UK (which is where the Depop seller was based) at some point in time, which undoubtedly brings with it another increase in their carbon footprint.
Then we move onto the texture of the fabric — it certainly feels like it could be viscose as described, but there’s also the possibility that it’s a polyester blend, as the fabric is stiffer and more structured than you’d expect 100% viscose to be.
Even if it were to be 100% viscose (the most favourable alternative), this still poses somewhat of an issue. The standard process of making viscose requires a hefty amount of pretty nasty chemicals. If the trousers in question are, in fact, made of polyester I don’t think I need to expand too much on the well-documented problems that are associated with a synthetic textile that is made from oil products.
However, the real issue with synthetic textiles is the microfiber pollution.
Yes the creation of the garment creates a significant proportion of its overall environmental impact, they say the majority of this impact is in the way we care for our clothes once we’ve taken them home. There is well documented evidence that synthetic garments shed microscopic fibers into our water systems each and every time they are washed, with microfibers now being widely discovered in some seemingly remote ocean locations, having originated on land in our washing machines.
Although at first glance they may not seem significant given their invisible size, but even a minute build up of plastic microfibers can pose a significant environmental risk to aquatic ecosystems, which in turn inserts itself into our own food chain through our consumption of seafood products.
Common Objective suggest that the amount of plastic microfibers shed into waterways will reach the equivalent of at least 240'000 (and potentially up to 3 million) plastic bags every day by 2030.
Not an easy problem to solve if your wardrobe contains a lot of polyester, regardless of whether it has been purchased first- or second-hand. Since polyester has been the most widely-used textile for clothing over the last half a century, there’s a lot of second-hand, both genuine and non-genuine “vintage” clothing that is made of the stuff.
I haven’t even broached the subject of vintage sorting warehouses, and the fact that sometimes the people who are being paid to sort through masses and masses of clothing are facing less-than-legal workplace conditions. That’s an ethical conversation for another article.
In this particular case, I had thought my purchase would align with my own definitions of environmentally-friendly purchasing, but after a little digging it’s beginning to seem like that may not be true. I’m still not going to return the trousers (partly because I can’t) or throw them away in disgust — that’s far besides the point. There’s plenty that can be done to ensure that, regardless of how they were made and where they came from, the rest of their time in my wardrobe is as environmentally friendly as possible.
I’ll wash them as little as possible, and use a microfiber bag whenever I do to try and reduce the amount of fibers they may be releasing. I’ll also fix any holes or wear and tear to ensure they last as absolutely long as possible. Once they’ve truly lived their fullest lifespan I’ll take them to the textile recycling plant a few miles down the road so they can be re-used and re-made into something completely different, rather than sitting and rotting on landfill.
The moral of this story is that I’m not perfect (as much as it pains me to admit it) and no-one ever will be. We all make purchases that may turn out to not be quite up to our personal standards in one way or another. But regardless of where your clothes come from and how they got to you, there’s always a way to make things just a little bit more sustainable. You have the power.
