Garbage Bags: THE CYCLICAL NATURE OF FASHION

By Marija Jovic

Garbage bags are very direct in their purpose. A mode of transportation for trash, they serve as smoke screens that whisk away the waste we don’t wish to deal with anymore. This definition holds up only partially in my experience. Trash bags remove hindrances, but as a child I received them with the joy of presents on Christmas morning. Under all-consuming poverty, one man’s trash is a 9-year-old’s treasure.

Every couple of months, my mom’s church friend, Zora, would pull into our driveway in her scuffed 2008 Audi with its overflowing trunk. By the time she popped it open, I’d be by her side and ready to carry the trash bags inside, my rusty front door swinging shut behind me.

Once my mom and I completed our two back-and-forth trips, my mom would carefully untie the hefty bags, and my little treasures would come tumbling out: medium-waist bootcut jeans, blue Juicy Couture sweatsuits and oversized “I Heart San Fran” jackets. In her job as a house cleaner, Zora took out the trash in Calabasas, and I still wear those throwaways with a scavenger’s sense of pride.

Designed by Sabrina Eicher

When you’re younger, it's much easier to understand that clothing cycles through you, and not the other way around.Every owner breathes life and character into fabric, and that added personality doesn’t wash out. Every skirt I pulled out of a black trash bag had something to say. Every pair of leggings had a point to prove.

My favorite articles of clothing were always the ones that I knew would outlive me. They had seen the ‘70s, ‘80s and ‘90s, followed my grandmother from Bosnia to Serbia, to Germany, Greece and Egypt. My grandmother’s camel-colored coats are lined with satin and the stories of cities after midnight. When she tossed me items from her massive closet, I embodied her, donning her clothing and her courage. When these treasured pieces traveled home with me to Los Angeles, I wanted nothing more than to further their story. I imagined how they could grow with me, what stories they could whisper to my cousins and friends after I had nothing more to tell.

The oldest piece I own is a black velvet coat, which often feels like a second skin. It molded onto me when my grandmother first whispered stories intended only for my ears, a parting gift for her first grandchild