While vintage shopping has become trendy among younger generations—many of whom are turning away from fast fashion due to its ethical and environmental pitfalls—I’m not convinced antique shopping is quite on their radar just yet. But maybe it should be.
I recently attended my first antiques fair, and it felt like stepping out of modern consumerism and into something slower, quieter, more thoughtful. At an antiques fair, everything decelerates. It’s less frantic shopping spree, more watching an old movie through a 35mm slide viewer. Buyers nod appreciatively, linger over items, debate, deliberate, appraise, and compare. Though "comparing prices" becomes interesting when the items in question are hundreds of years apart. Imagine trying to weigh up two iPhones—one from 2023 and one from, say, 1830.
The experience goes beyond objects—it’s a social event threaded with stories. Buyers and sellers swap tales about the pieces, their origins, and the families they came from. I became something of an antique fair eavesdropper, learning by listening. One man told me about his 15th-century Normandy cabinet, now repurposed to store evening drinks and model aircraft.
I admired a Victorian mahogany writing slope—complete with compartments for quills, ink, and whatever one stored in 1860—and wondered aloud if the seller could throw in a free ergonomic assessment for a home office setup.
Antique fairs exist in a completely different headspace from modern consumerism. They’re not tailored to quick purchases, budget constraints, or the allure of new tech and contemporary furniture. There’s no grabbing things off shelves based on a glance at the price tag.
And while today’s consumer might squint at a tag to check where something was made, it rarely deters them if the product fits their immediate need. Then, once it breaks or wears out, it’s replaced—again and again—until, presumably, we evolve past toasters and bread just cooks itself.
But antique fairs? They offer a different rhythm. There’s a certain romance in the story cards that accompany the items: describing their origin, era, use. It makes you want to research more, dig deeper, care more.
My personal strategy as a first-timer? Watch, listen, and then, inevitably, fall for something pretty I know nothing about. Not the best approach, especially in this scene. But it’s an honest one.
Take, for instance, the pale blue salt-glazed ale jug I almost bought—a stunning early Victorian piece, circa 1850. It was beautiful, but after a quick Google search, I realized it was overpriced and outside my set budget. I walked away, a little sad but wiser. Research is invaluable, whether you’re a newcomer or seasoned collector.
On the upside, I did walk away with a charming gold spoon that sparked joy—and fit my budget. Is it durable enough to stir my coffee? Probably not. But it’s pretty.
I also met a man whose son clears out old estates. He told me how many vintage and antique items now end up in landfill. It made me think: maybe we should all attach little story cards to the things we love—important, sentimental, or just whimsical. So, if they survive us, they have a chance to be admired, discussed, and rehomed at a fair like this someday.
Because if there’s a story card, I’ll read it.
