“I’m a steward of these clothes,” Keesean Moore says. “My goal isn’t just to sell them—it's to make sure they find the right home, the right person.”
“It's about forming this kismet connection … between the past and the future.”
Clothes carry the marks of the lives their owners lived, and each new wearer both inherits those stories and adds their own. Wearing secondhand clothing is more than a fashion statement—it’s a chance to don a piece of history.
Tucked in the heart of Philadelphia’s Queen Village, Moore Vintage Archive functions like a living museum. Founder Keesean Moore lovingly calls it “the archive”—a place where racks of clothing hum with history, prestige, and, sometimes, contradiction. It’s a conversation between the shoppers of today and the histories that face the risk of erasure. Through fashion, Moore keeps these conversations alive.
Moore’s archival work is an ongoing search to find things that are made “really, really, really well.” The racks are lined with pieces that have graced runways, appeared in editorial spreads, or arrived unworn from the closets of diplomats and fashion icons. But Moore Vintage Archive is more than a secondhand designer fashion store—to Moore, it’s a form of “memory work.” More than anything, he’s drawn to fashion as a vehicle for historical preservation. But his vision is just one branch of a much larger ecosystem: across the world of vintage clothing, every archivist preserves something beyond fabric.
Instead of running from the complex histories of his pieces, Moore actively works to honor them. On the floor of the archive, two collections in particular stand in stark opposition to each other. One comes from the wife of a U.S. ambassador during the Reagan administration, the other from Black, queer designers whose careers were cut short by the AIDS crisis. “It left a bad taste in my mouth,” Moore says of the ambassador’s wife’s collection, “but I wondered if it meant something that these pieces were finding their way to me.”
In this woman’s Hoboken storage unit was a time capsule of iconic ’80s and ’90s vintage, including hundreds of early John Galliano designs, many still with the tags, and many others only worn once to benefits and state dinners. It’s a collection steeped in political controversy and social privilege: clothing not only tied to a designer disgraced for antisemitic remarks, but also to an administration remembered for its callous inaction during the AIDS crisis.
Now these garments hang in the same space as a collection of designs by Black, queer designers like Steven Burrows, Patrick Kelly, and Scott Barrie. “I’m collecting items with the goal of preserving contributions made by Black queer folk who died during the AIDS epidemic,” he explains, addressing the tension between the room’s two collections. “Simultaneously, on the floor of the archive, I have pieces worn by a group largely responsible for the annihilation of groups of queer folk through homophobic policies.”
Telling these stories alongside those of their counterparts, he believes, only makes the act of remembrance more visceral. Moore doesn’t shy away from these contradictions. He sees them as a “constant reminder that sometimes two things can be true at once.”
This kind of confrontation, he feels, is a necessary part of understanding our past. “After all,” he says, “that’s just what history is. History and the truth … they’re largely nonlinear elements of the human experience.” The pieces in his archive are charged with histories that might otherwise be neglected—he takes care to ensure they remain recognized.
Among his personal collection of works by Black, queer designers lies his most prized possessions: two suitcases from the former PR manager to Patrick Kelly, the groundbreaking Black American designer who broke barriers in 1980s Paris as the first Black designer voted into the Chambre Syndicale. Inside the suitcases were original runway looks, Kelly–style embellished gloves, button pins, and handwritten invitations to his shows. “She just handed them off to me and went on about her day,” he says, still stunned.
This massive Patrick Kelly collection means everything to Moore. He’ll never sell it. Instead, he hopes to someday curate a larger exhibit around them—a museum exhibit, but not one that tells a “fashion story.” That has already been done. “It’s more about understanding the breadth of cultural contributions made by Black queer people,” he explains. “These creative powerhouses who we lost to the AIDS epidemic.” He hopes to carry Kelly’s legacy into the future by honoring his contributions to the fashion world.
Moore is always seeking out new Patrick Kelly designs, steadily building a collection he hopes will one day anchor his museum exhibition. Until then, he regards Moore Vintage as a museum in its own right, and he takes pride in the fact that students, locals, and visitors alike can study these pieces up close while hearing Moore tell their stories.
For Moore, his ongoing collection of designs is a rebellion against today’s efforts to sanitize American history. His archive is not only a space to give clothing new life, but an arena to highlight the history of the queer fashion world. As a steward of their clothes, Moore takes this goal very seriously. And someday, his pieces will make it to the museum floor, carrying their histories beyond his archive.
If Moore’s work is an ode to the voices of the past, in all their complexities, Sheldon Schwartz’s approach to vintage clothing shows how memory collects in layers over time, building up with every resale, every wear, and every turn of the trend cycle. For him, the curation process isn’t as much about “freezing” moments in time as it is about integrating retro clothing into contemporary life. For Schwartz, the best part of the vintage space is the community.
Thrifting has been Schwartz’s passion project since he was growing up in his father’s Detroit pawn shop. For over 30 years, he ran Strange Cargo Vintage in Chicago, where he came to understand an ongoing pattern in his business: every 10 years, vintage fashion “flips.” Nowadays, it’s “what the younger people are calling Y2K.” But when he first started selling in ’93, the ’70s were all the rage. He couldn’t keep bell bottoms in stock.
Schwartz’s curation style was marked by a tendency to buy in bulk. Sometimes, he’d clean out entire stores, walking out with boxes packed with Levi’s, leather jackets, Air Jordans, and obscure designer collections. He once walked into a bike shop and left with over a thousand pairs of untouched 1970s Nikes (which he sold completely in under a week). One time, he bought over 500 Hannah Montana shirts in a single trip.
“People thought I was crazy,” he says. “But I’m like, Hannah Montana is a phenomenon!”
During his years working full–time at Strange Cargo, Schwartz traveled all over the country. “You never know where you’re going to find things,” he explains. “House calls, people bringing stuff in … we’d have a sign: ‘We buy clothing. We buy sneakers.’”
But of all these coast–to–coast travels, one of Schwartz’s most legendary finds came from just around the corner in Cicero, Illinois, at a vintage store run by an elderly woman named Rae. There was nothing that interested him in that store, he tells me. Nothing. But Rae reeled him in with promises of a personal garage filled with treasures.
Schwartz eagerly accepted the invitation. He recalls her response: “Well, I’m not just taking you over … I don’t know you!”
Thus began a years–long series of visits to Rae’s store, until Schwartz was finally deemed trustworthy. Upon finally seeing the fabled garage, Schwartz was floored. It was bursting with boxes of unworn Rudi Gernreich pieces from the ’60s, straight from the rack.
“She had thousands of pieces. I purchased them all.”
Schwartz sold the entirety of this collection to a woman named Rita Watnick, a friend he made during a brief post–grad stint in the LA music world. Her Beverly Hills vintage boutique, LILY et Cie, has made a name for itself with recent breakout sales—notably, the store sourced Zendaya’s second look of the 2024 Met Gala and a dress worn during Ariana Grande’s Wicked press tour. Several of Gernreich’s iconic pieces went on from LILY et Cie to be modeled and photographed in prominent fashion magazines.
At Strange Cargo, Schwartz’s basement became something of a secret trove. Rumors of a Kiss pinball machine and high–grade items lured in musicians from the bar down the street. A slew of iconic characters graced the floors of his store—Pearl Jam, Rage Against the Machine, PJ Harvey, and the White Stripes. They tended to gravitate toward its leather jackets and vintage sneakers. Sandra Bullock once purchased a Chicago police jacket from the store that she was later photographed wearing.
Schwartz came to form relationships with many of his customers—they’d grab a beer after hours, or he’d work to style them for various projects. Once, he helped the Beastie Boys source a full set of ’60s suits.
The only instance, however, where Schwartz admits to being truly star–struck is when Jimmy Page—guitarist, songwriter, and producer for Led Zeppelin—visited Strange Cargo and left with a leather jacket.
Schwartz recalls being gifted another special collection whose memory he treasures—every Kenosha Kicker jacket from Home Alone, including John Candy’s. “I think it was like a 6X. Enormous. That collection I regret selling … I’m a big John Hughes fan.”
Not every treasure was quite this glamorous, of course. A woman once sold him two permanently stained graphic tees that she wore at Woodstock. “I don’t want them,” she told him. “But I know they’re worth something.”
Schwartz bought the dirty t–shirts from her for asking price—not for resale but for safekeeping. He never wants to part with them. He keeps them safe among his collection of other unwearable items: a stained, child–sized Beatles hoodie and an assemblage of denim jackets he can’t fit into but refuses to give up. They’re pieces that speak to him in ways he can’t fully articulate—artifacts of lives lived, moments that shaped culture. He knows he should probably pass them along (his wife tells him so), but he won’t right now—at least not for a little while.
But even with these “goldmine” finds and celebrity sightings, Schwartz's favorite story isn’t one about the clothing itself, but about the connections they sparked. “I was pretty proud of the community that was created there,” he says of Strange Cargo. “Four marriages happened because of it. One between employees, two between employees and customers … and then one of them was me.”
When Schwartz considers the most rewarding part of his time running the store, he answers without hesitation: “meeting my wife.” They were set up by one of his coworkers—and after a first date at karaoke, they instantly clicked.
Nowadays, she’s part of his vintage world. Though she gravitates toward “high fashion,” she also loves leather jackets and band tees. Schwartz swears she has one of the best vintage T–shirt collections in the country. He always keeps an eye out for her favorites—Harley Davidson, Hip–Hop, and ’70s or ’80s R&B shirts. “I buy everything for her,” he says.
From his earliest days tagging along to his father’s Detroit pawn shop to the decades he spent running Strange Cargo and now Scrapwell Vintage—his eBay storefront where he still sells in his free time—Schwartz’s life has been shaped by the relationships vintage has made possible. In his curation, Schwartz doesn’t just chase the trend cycle, he chases connections. Beyond the thrill of getting ahead of the fads, it’s this community aspect that’s kept him hooked since childhood.
Someday, Schwartz may part with his too–small denim jacket collection, knowing the pieces could find new life in other hands. For now, though, the nostalgia is too strong. Those jackets, like his other keepsakes, are more than pieces of clothing—they’re stories of the people he’s met and the moments that shaped him.
Like Moore’s archive, Schwartz’s world proves that clothing never exists in isolation. Each garment is charged with the histories of its past wearers, and those histories travel forward with every sale or exchange. Through his band shirts and jackets, Schwartz doesn’t just sell clothes, he extends their lives.
Folded on his dresser is a pile of graphic tees ready to go. They’ll be shipped out to a new eBay buyer in the morning.
If Moore preserves memory through historical curation in fashion, and Schwartz lets memory circulate through community and resale, Abby Codrea shows how clothing can honor the past while also embracing new, imagined futures. For her, garments are not just artifacts to be preserved or passed on, but living works ripe for reinvention.
At Sweet Peel Vintage in Queen Village, just down the street from Moore, Codrea pulls scent, sight, and sound together. Dim, cozy lighting, the creak of wood, soft rock music, and the smell of citrus and pear all come together to form a space where memory is multisensory and alive.
Every vintage store has its own “vibe” (Moore Vintage is archival designer, while Strange Cargo was a hub for “casual vintage”), and Codrea believes that her artful curation is what truly differentiates Sweet Peel. Like Schwartz, she likens her store to a multisensory museum exhibit. But what makes her work especially powerful is her attention to memory: many of Codrea’s most meaningful collections come from families selling wardrobes of relatives who have passed. Codrea treats these garments as keepsakes, pieces that hold someone’s spirit; by preserving their clothing, she keeps their memories alive. One such collection came from a woman named Eva, who sold Codrea her late aunt’s wardrobe, which was full of particularly funky pieces.
Codrea plucks a black leather jacket adorned with animal print cut–outs from the rack. Dangling fringe drapes from the hanger and along her forearm. Metal studs glint in the morning light. “You can already tell from this where we’re going … like how crazy she was,” Codrea says. “You can tell every moment felt like a party to her.”
Piece by piece, the clothing tells the story of Eva’s aunt’s life: a metallic gold blazer, cobalt blue high–waisted shorts with lace–up sides, and a multitude of uniquely embellished black leather jackets. “You can see her whole personality throughout,” Codrea says softly. The collection is a tribute to a woman who lived boldly and loudly; it's a tangible way of keeping her spirit alive.
But Codrea’s curation doesn’t end at preservation. She pushes the story forward and transforms the clothing she encounters, whether through upcycled pieces, art show installations, or, most notably, stage productions.
One of Codrea’s most meaningful collaborators in this process is her close friend Shay Overstone, a playwright, researcher, and artist originally from Western Australia. Their friendship began with a shared love of film photography and secondhand shopping (“op shopping” as Overstone calls it) and has since blossomed into an artistic partnership. When Overstone wrote her first play, Next Stop, Codrea was the natural choice for costume designer. They work well together—Overstone likens their collaboration to a jive. “It’s kind of like us making jazz together,” she says. They connect in ways Overstone describes as intangible.
For Overstone, clothes are an essential piece in the puzzle of her artistry. “Dialogue is one thing, but clothes … they really fill out my story. They add substance.” In fact, she enjoys writing characters who don’t talk—instead, their clothing speaks for them. It’s a form of power. After all, there’s only so many people who can pull off the leather leopard pants worn by her “ultimate cool guy” in Next Stop.
When bringing Overstone’s characters to life, Codrea’s goal is to make each actor—many of whom are performing for the first time—feel “alive onstage.” Her costuming process begins with measurements and a list of cast members’ zodiac signs, which give her an idea of how someone may prefer to express themselves. Codrea only struggles when a character needs to look boring. “That’s really hard for her,” Overstone says, laughing.
Codrea has costumed Overstone’s first three plays, all of which sold out completely. That includes Overstone’s most recent production at the 2025 Philadelphia Fringe Festival, which was so successful it scored an encore performance.
The work that goes into Overstone’s plays is extensive. “I’m not going to lie, it’s not fucking easy,” she admits. But as her productions have grown, so has her support system. She’s even brought on a project managing assistant—Shakira Deloach, an employee at Moore Vintage.
Like Schwartz, Overstone notes without hesitation that the most rewarding part of putting on her plays is the sense of community she builds. Her background in psychology means that Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is always in the back of her mind, driving her “obsession” with the idea of belonging. That sense of belonging, she emphasizes, comes not only from the audiences, but from her collaborators in the production process—from friends like Codrea, her housemate who designs her sets, the team of creatives taking to the stage for the first time, and the friends–of–friends looking to try something new. Pulling her costuming from vintage backstock, Overstone’s plays imagine new lives and bridge past and present through performance, elevating clothing to the level of spectacle.
On Overstone’s stage, the garments of Sweet Peel Vintage find new lives, carrying on the memories of past owners while allowing actors to step into new identities. Through intentional, personal styling, Codrea creates new meaning with the clothing of the past, allowing the artists to bring the pieces to life onstage. Eva’s aunt’s jackets don’t collect dust on the racks; they live again under stage lights. Together, Codrea and Overstone show how memory in fashion isn’t just preserved or circulated, but actively reimagined through new forms of artistry.
In a world where clothing outnumbers people, Codrea sees thrifting, upcycling, and repurposing not only as catalysts for connection, but keys to a more sustainable future. She puts it simply: “I’m on this wave of feeling like we don’t need to produce anything new. There’s already enough clothing in the world.” She imagines new lives for her pieces, both on and off the stage.
For Moore, Schwartz, Overstone, and Codrea, vintage clothing emerges as a vessel for memory and connection. In their own way, each archivist shows that vintage clothing is more than a commodity for resale, it’s a memory carried forward and reshaped.
Moore’s ongoing collection of designs is not only a chance to give clothing new life, it’s a chance to tell never–before–told stories of marginalized artists and designers. As a steward of their clothes, Moore takes this goal very seriously. One day, his pieces will form their own exhibition, sharing the story he’s always hoped to tell.
As for Schwartz, he anticipates a sort of vintage renaissance in the coming year. “With tariffs and the way the economy’s going, vintage clothing is going to get a lot more business,” he says, bittersweetly. “People are going to start looking for stuff that’s already here.” He predicts vintage stores will do great in about six months.
Nowadays, vintage clothing in the US tends to circulate between dealers. But as it travels from place to place, each location and person leaves a mark in its fabric. Within the fibers of such durable fashion, memory and history endure. Every person who comes into contact with a piece inevitably leaves their mark.
After all, as Moore says, everything he sells, he sells to someone interesting.
