December 18, 2024 |
For my 16th birthday, my mother bought me a ring. A simple, 10 karat gold wedding band without embellishment, it was a token of motherly love and it hasn’t left my finger since. I’ll be buried with it. The meaning it carries defies its simplicity. But aside from the fact that it was a coming-of-age gift from my mum, it’s a pretty basic piece of jewellery. I mean, she bought it at Canada’s equivalent to TKMaxx; it’s not exactly an heirloom. But it is valuable, even if only to me. Although it’s nothing swanky, the ring, to me, posseses the same unshakable gravitas as those ancient relics that tell stories of love, loss and lineage. So really, it’s the closest thing I own to an heirloom.
Generally speaking, there aren’t many people that even have heirlooms anymore, at least not as the textbook definition of them would be. The literal translation of the word ‘heirloom’ is “a valuable object that has belonged to a family for several generations”: think stuffy mahogany furniture, antique silver tea sets and huge, garish, gem-covered jewels – the kind of stuff you see in period dramas or gathering dust in museums.
The heart-shaped-chain necklace I wear day-in day-out
Heirlooms used to be treasures – formal furniture, leather-bound books or some gaudy brooch you’d never wear but still cherished for its history. Back then, you’d eye that brooch tucked away in your mum’s dressing table, nestled in a velvet-veneered box, waiting for the day it would be yours. But today, the trend cycle spins at warp speed, spitting out a new ‘core’ aesthetic practically on the daily. With society’s tendency to covet the newest iterations of everything, permanence, on a wide scale, has seemingly lost its appeal. It’s not about what might have staying power either. Things aren’t designed to scream “pass me down through generations” anymore; they barely whisper, “use me twice.” Where the younger generation once prized their parents’ keepsakes, today’s collectibles are plastic Sonny Angels and Jelly Cats, destined for fleeting moments of TikTok fame. In the age of the internet, the appreciation for craftsmanship and antiquity has fizzled out, leaving us chasing trends that evaporate as quickly as they crop up.
This is where the new jewellery circuit comes in, offering a re-education in what makes something an heirloom. Like in the past, it’s still about quality, longevity and timeless style. What’s different is where it comes from, and why. Previously, heirlooms came from our parents and were tied to wealth, status or tradition, handed down as symbols of one’s lineage. Now, they come from vintage retailers and independent, sustainably-minded designers and are defined by their emotional resonance: the personal stories and meanings we attach to an item, stitched together with memories, not just precious metals.
The thick, silver ring my ex-boyfriend bought me for my 24th birthday
I’m talking about the necklaces, bracelets and rings that never leave our bodies, taking on new layers of character with every wear; pieces that look, to some extent, antiquated, derelict or like they were pulled out of a mothballed shoebox at your eccentric great-aunt’s estate sale. Our deep-seated attachment to the stories that have woven themselves into the pieces makes them integral to our personal styles and something we have no plans of parting with – that is, until we pass them on to our own children.
We frequently find our treasured accessories in the bowels of back alley vintage markets and obscure specialist retailers, or perhaps even from independent designers. I’ve often spent a Saturday perusing the chockablock stalls at Camden Passage Market in Angel. Some of my most cherished pieces have come from the chaos of those sales tables. There’s the heart-shaped-chain necklace I wear day-in day-out. It’s pure silver but perfectly imperfect, slightly tarnished at the edges in a way that suggests character, not neglect. I found it buried in a heap there – a tangle of forgotten treasures guarded by a stall owner who definitely didn’t trust me. I paid £30, a steal for something I’ll treasure for a lifetime. One day, I hope to pass it to my children – maybe a daughter, if she exists – and say, “This was my favourite necklace. Take care of it.” She’ll roll her eyes, of course, but eventually, she’ll get it.
Emily Frances Barrett
Or there’s my baby bear brooch with its piercing ruby eyes. It lives on the lapel of my equally cherished vintage black blazer – a pairing that makes me feel, on a good day, like a minor antagonist in a Wes Anderson film. I never leave the house without it; I always feel protected wearing it, as though the bear’s glare dares the world to try me. I fished it from a pile at Bermondsey Antiques Market one freezing morning, my fingers numb but triumphant.
After a brief hiatus from there, and after my searches expanded to Alfie’s Antique Market and e-Bay, my ex-boyfriend brought me back to that same market in Angel for my 24th birthday. There, he bought me a thick, silver ring, its surface pockmarked with molten craters and streaked with a single, razor-sharp groove. Once again, I wear it religiously.
Another solid spot for sourcing is Accessories of Old, a Fulham-based self-described Aladdin’s Cave that specialises in selling UK-made vintage jewellery from the ‘80s and ‘90s, originally made for Harrods, Liberty, Fortnum & Mason and more, at wholesale prices. There, amongst the chaotic trays of gold-toned bangles and tangled chains, you’ll find everything from ornate costume brooches to understated silver rings. Or try Portobello Road Market – a London institution – where you’ll battle crowds and questionable hagglers but occasionally stumble across a piece that stops you in your tracks.
New heirloom jewellery is a bit harder to put a finger on, but the primary signifiers are essentially last-ability, singularity and again, emotional resonance. Pieces are crafted by designers who combine artistry with an eye for the eternal. Take jewellery designer C. Solis, for example. Every piece she creates feels both primal and precious, like something dug out of an archaeological site and precisely polished for a modern world. Modern heirlooms.
For pieces that seem like they’ve been plucked from a lost treasure trove of mysterious and eclectic pirate treasure, look no further than Sarabande alum Emily Frances Barrett. Barrett is a mudlarker (a person who scavenges in river mud for objects of value) and a skilled craftswoman, who has found in herself a certain knack for the use of bricolage, repurposing otherwise useless, discarded items like ring pulls and cigarette butts, pressed flowers and butterfly wings preserved in resin in her creations. While I don’t (yet) own any of her pieces, I’ve eyed them up at every birthday and Christmas for years. Santa can you hear me? It’s about damn time I turn up to work with a set of decade-old Marlboro butts hanging from my lobes. Call it eco-friendly fashion. Or for pearls, but not your grandma’s, try Barrett’s more coquettish pieces, which feature pearl crucifixes and silver-plated sea shells coiled with sleek, silver wire.
Goossens
If your idea of a heirloom-worthy adornment means smashed metal and organic forms, try Rome-based British designer Joanne Burke. Despite being self-taught, her abstract creations look just as at home in the halls of an art gallery as they do wrapped around someone’s finger or wrist. Think sculpted gold rings, carved talismanic pendants and bracelets that feel like relics from a forgotten civilisation.
On a higher jewellery tier, Alighieri and Goossens strike the perfect balance between heritage and modernity. My most treasured necklace? A gilded wheat pendant cut with a cabochon garnet from Goossens, gifted to me last year; it’s perhaps the most bourgeois thing I own. I don’t wear it often – I’m loyal to silver – but when I do, I feel powerful. That gilded gadget possesses immense value to me, and not just because it’s weighty and resplendent in that old-money way. It makes me feel like someone. I hope my kids can feel that way one day, maybe their Goossens hand-me-down will do the trick.
The thing is, price means nothing and value is personal. Heirlooms are not dead, they’re simply transformed, mutated – for the better, if you ask me. The new heirlooms aren’t about price tag or historical pedigree – they’re about what they’ve seen. We write our lives into them. They absorb our scratches, our sweat and our stories. And that’s good enough for me.
Photography courtesy of Emily Frances Barrett, Goossens and 10 Magazine.
