In 1900 my gramps landed in NYC and jumped a westbound train. After 2000 drunken miles, he was tossed out of the car in the high desert, miraculously landing unscathed amidst a pile of iron. The Machine Age was in high gear, and its detritus offered plenty enough for him to start a successful scrap metal concern.
Two generations later, and to my Dad’s dismay, I pocketed curious metal bits discovered in the family scrap yard. Instead of sorting them into profitable piles, I built a thought-altar. All those young creators’ dreams, forged into reality, but ending up tangled in the junk pile...
Today, I salvage scraps of history to adorn tip-top garments with icons of Machine Age vision. These were brands, yes, but from a time before branding. A time when the product was workmanship and the strategy was brazen conquest.
Some say history is dead and better forgotten -- or at best, ignored.