Antique Shopping Helped Me Cope After Loss

If antiquing sounds boring and stale to you, you're not alone. The word conjures up visions of forgotten tchotchkes, musty-smelling enough to repel even moderate germaphobes. But navigating the world of antiques can be downright thrilling. If you pride yourself on savvy shopping and personal style and you're not sifting through relics, you're missing out. In my case, antiquing ignited my soul after loss — and the golden sink of a pioneering beauty mogul became the crown jewel of my guest bathroom.

Targeted by algorithms, ads, influencers, and the unrelenting trend cycle, everyone you know can buy the same item in 10 seconds or less. Nearly 75 percent of Americans enjoy the convenience of online shopping, perhaps at the cost of consideration and originality. The ethical concerns of fast fashion and overconsumption, including environmental and human rights, taint the joy of new possessions. I'm as guilty as any: I've been known to turn a zany purchase into my entire personality for a period before “evolving” and retiring it. For home furnishings, I rely on modern brands like CB2 too much. When a well-meaning guest described my NYC apartment as “like a hotel,” it stung.

Even so, I didn't intentionally fall in love with antiquing. After years of secondhand shop volunteering, that musty aroma was seared into my memory — until it was time to furnish a condo in Palm Beach, FL. Home of the famous Antique Row and a surfeit of well-heeled octogenarians, my surroundings inspired me to rise above the algorithms. I perused brick-and-mortar stores but felt lukewarm about the generic offerings and brazen price tags. Amid personal traumas that rocked my confidence, I couldn't even commit to a chair.

I let myself linger on the Porch of Indecision for months before I happened upon a closing antique store on Antique Row (RIP, Churchill Galleries' The Annex). Sensory overload ensued — a spate of furniture so beautiful, unique, and charming, at prices that made me squeal. Ideas and inspiration swarmed where I had been unable to visualize anything at all. I felt jocund. Instead of being bombarded by ads, I was free to take everything in. And everything had a story: the bronze bust of a beguiling Polish woman, a pair of art deco chairs that endured the roaring '20s. Not only did I have stunning furniture I could actually afford at my fingertips, but it also had history.

Antiques are survivors beckoning for a second (or third, fourth, fifth) chance at a new life. They felt just like me.

The antiquing community embraces the humanity of shopping. Owners and enthusiasts collect items over decades and trips around the world. They care about them, and they know their stories. They'll text if they think your dream item could be at next weekend's auction. Soon, I became part of the community and graduated from Antique Row to estate sales at warehouse locations. Hunting in a treasure trove of antiques reignited my passion, pride, and curiosity for aesthetics.

I lusted over a vast oil painting of people vividly enjoying life. I paid $200 for the piece, an original from Iranian painter Hessam Abrishami whose works regularly cost several thousands. His mission to portray optimism and discover the world beyond his childhood in Iran resonates — I feel solidarity whenever I look at it.

At Kofski Estate Sales, I spotted her: a gleaming sink likely plucked from the les toilettes of Versailles. An enchanting objet d'art is one thing; a mysterious, old-fangled appliance that needs to work is entirely another. But with two of our guest sinks with exposed plumbing and sans cabinetry, we actually needed a bathroom unit. And my husband, with whom I preface almost all of my ideas with “you're not going to like this,” was eyeing her, too. She was impractical, sure, but she could be perfect.

When we learned the Sherle Wagner-adorned sink belonged to the late Sydell L. Miller, it felt fated. The self-made founder of Ardell false lashes and Matrix hair care “made it big in the beauty industry by giving new skills, products, and dignity to the workaday salon hairdresser,” per her eulogy printed in The New York Times. As a longtime beauty editor, I love that Miller was an inclusive trailblazer in the industry I'm deeply invested in at a time when sexism was flagrant. And I've never loved my puny eyelashes.

How cool is it to honor someone's thoughtfully designed piece and have the opportunity to love it yourself? Repurposing the sink was worth our elbow grease. We paid $900 and scheduled a pick-up for the next day.

While waiting at the store, I noticed a full display of lettuce tableware. I'd been fed advertisements for salad plates on social media and felt tickled to see them in this context. Antiques encompass current trends — everything old is new again, and in lieu of paying $400+ for a lettuce set from Williams & Sonoma or Tory Burch, you can buy the originals at dupe prices. I leaned in to sniff them, as one does, and while they didn't emit fresh produce, there wasn't a hint of must.

Alana Peden is an award-winning executive storyteller, strategist, and brand shaper. She cut her teeth in print (at magazines like InStyle and More) before holding senior digital positions (at Penske Media Corporation and Bustle Digital Group). In 2017, she conceived and launched Elite Daily's fashion and beauty verticals. More recently, she served as the editor in chief at StyleCaster.