NYC Men's Fashion and Retail Blog | The Bespoken: For Gentlemen

Like Gary Cooper's Sweater

   

Certain celebrities mange to capture our adulation in life, and upon their death have been deified even further, Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, Audrey Hepburn and James Dean come quickly to mind. They remain referenced posthumously in numerous fashion periodicals, despite the intervening decades. Today my thoughts dwell on a less popular fashion icon, Gary Cooper, (b. 1901, d. 1961) an altogether too brief life, as lives goes.

A grandly talented actor, Gary Cooper was an attractive figure; a handsome man, he had a classic matinee profile. He was well proportioned, and athletically inclined, not a natural clothing horse, through the guise of the MGM Studio System, he always looked equally at home in a double breasted jacket by Adrian, or indigenous dung covered cowboy attire. He was so sexually smoldering that Hurrell repeatedly photographed him surrounded by wafts of cigarette smoke. I have never seen an unattractive photograph of the star. His name, like Cary Grant’s, seems synonymous with old Hollywood elegance. His style was so aped, that in the song, “Puttin’ On The Ritz”, by Irving Berlin, one of the lines is “…Dressed up like a million dollar trooper, trying hard to look like Gary Cooper…super duper.” Gary Cooper style remains a kind of fashion shorthand.

Last year with a small unexpected windfall I managed to secure a purchase of a black wool boat neck sweater worn by Mr. Cooper in 1936, from an on-line estate sale. I was irresistibly drawn to it. In my mind, I see the actor on a two masted schooner with pals Clark Gable, and Carole Lombard yucking it up for a studio photographer presumably snapping candid photos for “Life” or “Photoplay Magazine”. They are off the coast of Catalina. They are taut, and tan, and Max Factored.

After several weeks of shipping, the sweater came with a certificate of authenticity, and seemingly loved, carefully wrapped in tissue paper. It smelled old, the way 100% wool should. My mind works in odd ways as I’m thinking that this sweater was made from sheep that lived during the Great Depression, but I digress. I was almost afraid to put it on; I approached it with such reverence. If not for the fact it once belonged to Gary Cooper I would describe this sweater is a perfunctory item, but as classic today, as it was over 70 years ago. I believe in 70 years it will remain stylish. The boat neck collar is the least popular in the hierarchy of sweater couture. The boat neck collar is like lost fashion lexicon. In fact, few manufacturers make them any longer, everything has moved to the Coke and Pepsi style of collars, its crew or V-neck. However, the boat-neck collar when worn with a simple shirt, and scarf, is formidably dashing! I welcome its return. If anyone knows David Beckham, George Clooney or the Sartorialist, please ask them to try a boat neck, and start a trend. Alas, too few people notice the likes of me.

While wearing the clothes of a celebrity does not really magically imbue us with their attributes, it does suggest a kind aspiration of ideals, a desire to be like, behave like, or become like the original wearer. If not, why then did the famous black dress worn by Audrey Hepburn in the opening credits of “Breakfast of Tiffany’s” sell at auction for over 800,000.00. Anyone could easily copy the dress for just a pittance. Sometimes clothing communicates. It has the ability, if well chosen to embody our persona. Cary Coopers sweater captures some of his attributes; it is dark, dense, and tightly knit, as deceptively simple as modern architecture, practical to the point of being serious, as romantic and lonely as the sea, and masculine. Clothing has the ability to transform us. I do not become Gary Cooper; however, I do become more like me.

AKA'd

 

Not since the seven degrees of Kevin Bacon became the standard for strange celebrity associations has a word smithing game been so popular.

The game is fairly simple, you take your favorite designer(s) and then replace their name with a TV counterpart that shares some similar characteristic, or attribute, the more obscure the connection the better. You know you’ve done well if the name “sticks”. The best players are usually of a certain age, which immediately catch the reference. For instance Marc Jacobs is AKA’d as Judy Garland, which is a great AKA, except if you're 18, like one of my students, who didn’t know who Judy Garland was until I explained “You know, Dorothy, from the “Wizard of Oz”, she still didn't quite get it.

For instance, Kimora Lee and Russell Simmons are AKA’d as Mortica and Gomez Addams, Simon Doonan and Jonathan Adler are AKA’d as Ricky and Lucy Ricardo, Dianne Von Furstenberg and Barry Diller are AKA’d as Lillian and Herman Munster, (wicked smile) Dean and Dan Caaten are AKA’d as Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen (also AKA'd as “Michele Tanners” in the trade), Victor and Rolf are AKA’d as Laverne and Shirley, and Dolce and Gabbana are AKA’d Fonzy and Potsy. You get the gist. Once their comparable names are established, they are referred to on the sly as in “Did you just see Mortica on E; she’s one Botox away from Carolyn Adams.” Even reading the driest WWD story is secretly injected with unintentional humor when you read that Fonzy and Potsy are opening a new store in Milan.

Some of the AKA’s are divisive, some are sweet, some are meant to skewer, others are just for fun. My favorite, well, it’s a tie, Donald and Ivanka Trump are AKA’d as Fred and Pebbles Flintstone, and Karl Lagerfeld…no, no, I dare not say…you guess.

Homme-less

Recession not withstanding, I just came from the new Tom Ford Shop at Bergdorf Goodman’s Men’s. Granted, it opened ages ago, however, I had avoided it at all costs as I’m too weak-willed, and really not a masochist, and seeing what I can’t have smacks of self-inflicted sadism. The first step in CA (Couture Anonymous) is…“I admit I’m powerless over couture”. Regardless, the beneficent Tom Ford “Shop in Shop” is, as Deborah Kerr would have described it, “the closest thing to heaven on earth…in New York.” It is the largest “Shop in Shop” in the world, or at least so the promotional materials report. At 1,600 square feet, it’s roughly three times the size of my studio apartment. The “Shop in Shop” is like glamorous squared. I think the mathematical equation is GL m(ore) Uus = 2. The “Shop in Shop” is all part of Tom Ford’s master plan for world domination. A goal he will as likely achieve as easily as others had invading Poland, or occupying Paris (don’t laugh it was done.) I won’t say the “Shop in Shop” is over the top, but Edith Wharton would be impressed, and likely would have taken copious notes.

There is no economy in a Tom Ford suit; the prices are as deep as his lapels. You do not inquire where the sales rack is. Bergdorf Goodman’s doesn’t run sales or offer green stamps. Granted, there has been no “bail-out”, or re-marketed “rescue plan” for retailers. The holiday season is upon us as, so will it be buy, buy, buy, or bye–bye? The economy is as shaky as the Brady Bunch’s house of cards. (Episode: the girls want a sewing machine, the boys want a rowboat, there are only enough green stamps to purchase one or the other, it’s settled with a bet on who can build the tallest house of cards.) I’d love to purchase a Tom Ford Suit, but I’d have to sell my organs on Craigslist, or EBay, and I think they sort of frown on the practice of selling kidneys for couture. Please note that Daniel Craig, aka James Bond, is dripping in Tom Ford in this years latest 007 installment "Quantom Of  Solace". Be still my heart! I could go panhandling on the subway, or stand outside the Plaza in my Barney’s Co-op Versace, donning a sad face, and a cardboard sign scribbled in Sharpie marker that reads…

Vogue Homme-less will work for Dior

Stranded needs D & G to get home

Even your Prorsum helps!

…but I doubt many tourists, or locals would be bemused. Still the Tom Ford “Shop in Shop” is a remarkable tribute to the strength of economy, the perseverance of the upper class, and blind faith in capitalism, that business despite the obstacles, goes on as usual.

Tom Ford, who departed Dior too soon, has floundered, but managed to re-emerged like a Phoenix. The perennial bad boy of fashion is as well known for his exquisite tailoring, as he is for “free-balling”. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but personally, that’s more information than I care to have about a designer. Still, the ego driven label is as desirous as the arc of Moses or Indiana’s Jones’s Crystal Skull. Tom Ford is a marketing strategist .Tom Ford is an attractive man, and a sterling example of branding and persona. His stores, and “Shop in Shops” are the physical embodiment of the brand, and his persona, smart, stylish, smarmy, sexy, sharp, and seductive.

By the way, the Brady’s compromised, and bought a color TV with their green stamps.

Politics Makes For Strange Bedfellows

       

Several months ago, I posted a comprehensive analytical article called “Primary Fashion”, on what the candidates, McCain, Obama, and Clinton were wearing, and what it might reveal about their personalities, and how their clothing communicates complex ideas, and sends a visual message to the masses. As the campaign draws to an end, I would like to revisit the subject matter, albeit from a retailer’s perspective.

First a brief digression, much has been in the press of late regarding Governor Pallin’s 150,000.00 wardrobe overhaul, (needed) and Cindy McCain has been picked about like a Sunday roast, (deserved) while Michele Obama appears to be relatively unscathed (warranted) by the fashion police. As previously stated, the fashion community is seldom generous to female politicians, or politician’s wives. My heart goes out to them, that being said…

On Union Square, in NY City sits the menswear anchor, Rothman’s, so venerable an institution; it was once spoofed on an episode of “Seinfeld”. This week’s windows pay homage to our Republican and Democratic candidates with over-sized cardboard cutouts of their heads glued onto tongue depressors. It is a scathingly simple idea, and executed brilliantly. The oversize head references the inflated egos so many politicos seem to have. The proportion creates a kind of character, without actually altering their image. The scale is almost balloon like, and coincidentally fits right into the Halloween season. The 2-dimensional cheap cardboard references the false face that politicians present with grimaces so cloyingly annoying that one wants to slap it right off. The associations connected to cardboard are “manufactured“, “mass-produced“, “indistinguishable” and readily “replaceable“. The trail of windows present Senator McCain, and Senator Obama in casual, day, and evening-wear, diverse looks, different messages, but the same smarmy be-dimpled expressions run throughout, and repeat. They seem unaware that their circumstances have changed. The clothes may change; the candidates do not. It is covertly clever.

Retailer, The Gap, which I usually find disappointing, came up with a fun “VOTE” window for their children’s wear. The store on 42^nd Street delivers the non-partisan message with simple graphic accuracy, but spoofs the seriousness of the campaigns offering up “Peanuts” ,“Batman”, and “Mr. Bubble” as potential running mates. While not quite charming, the windows are appealing, and make standard graphic tees, and product tie-ins their own counter-cultural political statements including “Vote for Junk Food”.

Life On Mars

Certain TV shows have had a huge impact on fashion. Recent shows like “Sex & The City”, “Mad Men”, and “Gossip Girls” are notable for their influence. This year’s surprise entrant is “Life on Mars”. What makes it a surprise is that the show takes place in 1973, which is not a period often associated with great fashion. Despite that, the show is a rating success, with over 11.3 million viewers last week.

In 1973, I was a scant 16 year old, a freshman in high school. It was a simpler time, nothing like today, an unpopular, and unjust war overseas (Viet Nam) was coming to an end, a recession began, and gas at .40 cents a gallon ushered in an age of contempt for big business, and Wall Street in general, our political candidates debated Roe V. Wade, and “the right to life” became a polarizing campaign element, which fed into the general distrust of Republicans, the status-quo, and a right-wing government, which was grappling with multiple scandals, think Watergate, the conflict in the Middle East was escalating, we dismissed a group called ABBA in favor of Elton John, neither of whom would ever be seen on something as commercial as Broadway, or so we thought. All that being said, we were as supremely confidant in our power as a nation, as we were in the new World Trade Center Towers, which rose above the NY skyline We were the biggest, ergo, the best.

If I could take a magical time capsule ride back to sometime to in the past, I am not so certain I would head back to 1973, it is strangely dissimilar to today, isn‘t it? FYI: 1973 was 35 years ago. Unfortunately in 1973 I wasn't paying too much attention to 1973. I was trying to figure out how to get a "shag" like David Cassidy in "The Partridge Family". You know what they say about if you hold onto something long enough it will come back. Well, that is a half-truth; it does come back, but usually better (except for "shags".) That may be true of clothes, but it is definitely true of TV, and “Life On Mars” makes 1973 groovy all over again.

“Life On Mars” does capture all the fashion forensics of the early 70’s, girls with straight parted hair, slightly disheveled; (sans product) they wear baby dolls, bohemian peasant blouses, and granny dresses with puffy bishop sleeves. Have you seen Dolce & Gabbana and Louis Vuitton's ads lately? There are alpha-men in low-rise jeans, (usually studded) and corduroy slacks, with wide belt loops. Hello, The Gap, and Roberto Cavalli, are you conspiring? Men wear wide watch cuff bands, which are as commonplace as Ed Hardy, or Aldo’s accessories. Businessmen are at ease in plaid suits with wide lapels. Tom Ford have you been watching ABC? Wide ties and collars worn outside the jackets is de rigueur, and appears almost pulled off of a Sean John ad. The street is littered with “low-life’s” in Spandex, Lurex, pimped-out, and as trashy as an American Apparel catalog. Best of all are leads Jason O’Mara, a comely Steve McQueen type, with his worn-out, and butter soft, black leather blazer, which he alternates each episode with his tight cow hide tan leather, which is right out of Wilson’s House of Leather, but so thrift store chic that I predict Mark Jacobs will pay homage to it in his next collection for Louis Vuitton, if not in polyester or double knit. Gretchen Mol with her coiffed Farrahesque flip, powder blue eye shadow, and pink blush is almost Olivia Newton-John perfect, and provides a counter pointed restraint to Michael Imperoli’s blown dried tresses, long shaggy side burns, overgrown grotesque mustache, and hairy chest. In 1973, it’s all about the hair.

The show based on the equally influential BBC series is preposterous in its premise. Its 2008, a commitment phobic police office, Sam Tyler, is hit by a car, and knocked unconscious while perusing a serial killer out to get his African American girlfriend (Lisa Bonet) and get this, police partner. He wakes up on the same street, only now its 1973, and he hears David Bowie’s “Life On Mars” as he awakes. “Take a look at the lawman beating up the wrong guy. Oh man! Wonder if he'll ever know, he's in the best selling show. Is there life on Mars?” David Bowie. Sam has the same name, same job, and everyone is expecting him, as he’s a “transfer” from another district. Periodically he makes contact with the future/present, as he tries to figure out if he really traveled through time, is just dreaming, in a coma, or hallucinating.

If not for the paean to fashion, the show is not without charm as the protagonist, Sam, tries to manage the complexities of living in 1973. Three decades ago there are no cell phones, the police use walkie-talkies, there are no iPods, people listen to music transistor radios, as in FM radio, and on their 8 tracks, there is no Starbucks, people percolate Maxwell House in aluminum coffee pots, there are no iTunes, or Napster, people sell vinyl albums at 33 1/3^rd revolutions per minute, people do not e-mail each other, they call each other on pay phones, they call 911 on rotary dial phones, children make their Grandma’s ashtrays at school, kids eat Popsicles, not Hagen-Daz, people drive without seat-belts, people read books, and newspapers, there is no CNN, or Larry King, people watch the news in something called black & white. Most startlingly is the way people speak to each other, as in “those Mexican’s” and “Miss No Nuts,” when referring to a female police officer, or a “Skirt”, or a “Twirl” when referring to a female civilian. Protagonist, Sam, is referred to as “Mary”, by the Police Chief (played to Serpico perfection by Harvey Keitel) when he suggests that women are as smart as men. Gasp! It is 1973! I love it! I am hooked. I’m going through my closet and digging out the Angel Flight elephant bells and acrylic scoop neck sweater vests. I cannot wait until they release the first full season on DVD, but wait, I would have to go a year in the future for that to happen.

Purple Reigns

Not since 1984 has purple been such a fashion phenomenon.

In 1984, the artist formerly known as Prince released “Purple Rain” it was the top selling album of its day, and remains one of the top 20 best selling albums of all time. An equally popular film was made, winning several Oscars, and images of Prince on the red carpet in front of the Shrine Center in a purple cape with bejeweled hood still haunt me (involuntary shudder).

Now almost 25 years later purple has returned, big time! Purple has become a signature color, and has spotted on many a fashion show runway. The trend towards purple stated in 2006, and is going strong. Purple has become a sort of “insiders” color. So much so, that www.yahoo.com is promoting purple on their face page. If you scroll to the bottom of their search engine page you will find a link for “Start Wearing Purple”, and you be directed to purple factoids, purple history, purple music, purple pictures, purple pioneers and purple product. Yahoo is encouraging people to wear purple. Why you ask?

Purple has an irrtistiable balance of vibrant red (simulation) and serene blue (calm). This dichotomy accounts for part of its appeal. Purple has many unique associations, primarily with the aristocracy, and the papacy. Historically the pigments used to dye a garment purple were so scare that only royalty or the Pope could afford to purchase the dyes. In fact, the third century emperor, Aurelian, once told his wife she could not have a purple toga because he simply could not afford it (and he ruled the world!). Purple is a color therefore associated with spirituality and wealth, so perhaps during these time of political uncertainty and economic hardship purple has become a way to help us compensate.

I do not own a single purple garment; however, I did see a purple cashmere sweater on www.ballantyne.it website that I may be toying with for a proposed purchase.

Are you a purple people eater? If so, send your purple prose care of The Bespoken For Gentleman.

Swiss Cheese and What Is The Matterhorn?

 

 

 

 

 

The Swiss are best known for their Coo Coo clocks (I have two) chocolate, bank accounts, (I have none) and cheese, that, and their confounding ability to remain neutral when the world is crumbling around them.

When one thinks of European fashion, and attractive men, Switzerland is not the first country that comes to mind, however that may be about to change. So what is the Matterhorn? The associations that the world makes with Switzerland are practically antediluvian, if not downright dismissive, so how do you market a country? The Swiss Government wants its share of tourism, and media attention too, so much so that they have created a PSA (Public Service Announcement) to extol Swiss manhood and lure the world into its borders. It is part tongue-in-cheek, there’s even a clip of a cute Swiss sailor, and (Switzerland doesn’t have a Navy). Yes, the PSA is a little bit cheesy, but not sleazy, its intentions are still carried out with great finesse, and is successful. These Swiss men are calendar handsome, virile, and all out perfect specimens of masculinity.

While I have viewed this clever ad several times I may still not be heading off for an Alpine vacation, however the ad does give the Italians, French, and Swedish men a run for their money. Here is a link so you can see for yourself  if a Swiss Vacation is in the cards for you?

 

 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=KkHwHwFVsxA 

 

 

Robinson Crusoe...On Broadway

      

As a child, one of my favorite movies was “Robinson Crusoe On Mars” (1964) with Paul Mantee. I would have loved to be his Friday. Please send him my regards! The film was shown periodically on the Million Dollar Movie, although I seriously doubt it made that much in its initial run, it was a guilty pleasure, filled with adventure, isolation, overcoming obstacles, and a homo-erotic sub-textual romance, which perfectly encapsulated my adolescent life. Note to self: check eBay for DVD. The original novel may be considered a chestnut by some, considering it was written in 1719, by Daniel Defoe, but it has stood the test of time, and is frequently revived in film, TV, theater, and animation. Robinson Crusoe was a potboiler in its day, one of the first best-sellers. Defoe in a brilliant marketing strategy penned the novel as his autobiography, an unlikely story, still the notion that a nobleman, an aristocrat, being reduced to despicable circumstances, and forced to live in men’s only world reads like the coded text for a great Oscar Wilde novel.

But how is Robinson Crusoe relevant to today? It is seasonably cool. A brisk October breeze races down the caverns of Herald Square. Regretfully Olafur Eliasson waterfall installations were just dismantled here in New York as the latest promotional project went up, “Robinson Crusoe“…on Broadway. My attention is already peaked. This is NBC’s attempt to draw attention to one of its pet projects for the fall season. A voyeuristic tiki booth (fourth wall is removed) is situated directly across the street from mega-hit Mamma-Mia, which provides an interesting counterpoint for the tropical locale of the TV series. Both tourists and locals appear non-plussed as an attractive model (a Crusoe look-a-like) sits most of the day, pretending to be engaged in some bland domestic activity, and is available to pose with high-scholars visiting from the Mid-West, or overseas. However, one can pose with equal animation with the wax version of the Rock, or Samuel Jackson, at Madam Tussaud’s. As crass, and as extravagant as network TV can be, the installation still looks a bit more like Gilligan’s Island, think the Howell’s hut with shelled out coconut vases, a Rube Goldberg doorbell and you’ll get the drift. Why did anyone on Gilligan’s Island need a doorbell? Company didn’t call. Undaunted, NBC has been extravagant in lavishly setting up this 24/7 live-action interactive commercial for its newest TV series. I will give NBC “thumbs-up” for concept, but a “thumbs-down” for execution. To read more about the installation you can go directly to

http://www.savecrusoe.com

to see for yourself.

What works against the installation is the intrusive flat screen TV in the Tiki booth with the continuous loop. A flat screen on a deserted island. This isn’t “Lost”. If you have seen the TV commercials for NBC’s newest action-adventure-romance, you have seen the very handsome, Philip Winchester, in gorgeously tight leather chaps, equestrian boots, and torn suede blouse outrun musket-toting pirates, who at first glance look more like “The Pirates of the Caribbean” stand-in’s. Robinson Crusoe, swings from vines from the old Tarzan lot, flies over exploding cannon balls, and dodges poisonous spears. For a protagonist who is traditionally depicted as stranded alone on an uncharted island this new Robinson Crusoe sure gets a lot of company, pirates, pirate hunters, mutineers, indigenous natives, Spaniards in search of the New World, cannibals, giants, Amazons, and ghosts from the past, everyone stops by except me. RSVP cruises not withstanding.

Winchester with his scruffy beard, eyes almost as blue as Paul Newman’s, glistening sweat, and six-pack set of abs that makes Calvin Klein models seem scrawny, his sinewy physique, dimpled cheeks, (facial) resourcefulness, he can weave baskets, and rig water to run up to this tree house, he’s an alpha-male, a classic hunter-gatherer, a brooding intense loner, whose physical agility supersedes some of the wild animals on the island, yet he still manages to have a sense of humor, and makes witty asides without appearing effete or dishy, and the producers even threw in a refined upper crust Hugh Grantish accent. Robinson Crusoe is tailored to become a lonely viewers dream come true. The next best thing to a blind date. Winchester may need not have to act, he is prettier than all the boys on “Gossip Girls” put together. What more could a person want? The show airs on “Friday” night” well, that is almost clever. Anyway, Robinson Crusoe appears to have stepped off the cover of a Harlequin Romance, or a hackneyed script writers idea of fusion in this “Lost” meet’s “Survivor“, meets “MacGyver” meets “Treasure Island” meets “Zena” meets “Tarzan” meets “Mutiny On The Bounty” series, I’ll pass, I’d rather wait for Netflix to offer “Robinson Crusoe on Mars”.

I GANT Believe it!

 

It is a rare exception that I do not visit www.thesartoralist.com on a daily basis. It is like a morning cup of coffee, a necessary evil. I say evil because the site is addictive. You are forewarned. If you are a lover of street fashion, a fashion forecaster, tends analyst at The Donneger Group, a stylist for Vogue, a creative director, or buyer for Sears, it is your daily manna. As such, the site has elevated it’s founder, Scott Schuman in short order to the status of a demi-God in “the industry“, the industry meaning fashion, as in “the city“, meaning New York, as if there were no other.

Upon visiting the site several days ago, I saw that The Sartorailist, Schuman, who I have only admired from afar, was collaborating with preppy retailer GANT, whose NY store is just a stone throw away from my office. The event was a progressive style auction of framed autographed Schuman photographs of different, albeit stylish New Yorkers dressed in GANT clothing, shot downtown, Schuman’s fine de sicle, and all the benefits to going directly to the Children’s Defense Fun. I RSVP’d immediately. Go to www.gant.com/thesartoralist  for photos and further details. The partnership between GANT and The Sartoralist is an interesting one, Schulman, and his models, manage to integrate the clothing with the wearers idiosyncratic point of view, merchandising them with their own mix of accessories. This places the wearer’s personal signature on the GANT brand. It’s covertly clever.

I must give kudos where kudos is due. I place a lot of stock on customer service, and how it reflects on the retailer, and shopping experience. With no personal history with GANT, having never walked through its doors, and only a modest two e-mails between us, I was greeted by GANT’s Douglas Geller, who with never laying eyes on me, recognized my name, pronounced it correctly, shook my hand, welcomed me, and upon my exit did the same. GANT, if you are listening this man deserves a raise and a promotion. This is no small feat, GANT may appear to be a diminutive store from it’s façade on 51^st and 5^th, but in actuality has four full floors of clothing, and was filled to the rafters with the people we love to hate, fashionista’s, hundreds of them, end of rant. I think Geller knew them all. While I did not rub shoulders with any celebrities, I did spot several editors drool over former Saks employee, Michael Macko, now Details Magazine’s Fashion Director, so anyone who acknowledges me as easily as the mercurial Macko (hand to God) I hold in high esteem.

I shan’t mince words, GANT is one of those retailers that tend to fall under my radar, and therefore, an opportunity to place the scrutiny of my unerring green eyes upon them has a certain appeal. GANT, if you don’t know, was founded by emigrant, Bernard Gant, well over a hundred years ago, who like so many, came to America to make their fortune. Indeed, a fortune has been made, GANT is now a global corporation with stores in 54 countries, from Angola to Zanzibar, all right not really; Zanzibar, but they do have stores in Herzegovina, Luxembourg, and Taiwan.

 

I grant you, the clothing at first glance appears quintessentially American, red white & blue, but please note that France, The UK, Panama and Chile are also quintessentially red, white & blue. GANT clothing reads with a variety of descriptors, including, but not limited to, polo, preppy, yuppie, outdoorsy, athletic, smart, retro, sophisticated, old Hollywood, elegant, classic, men’s club, confidant, charming, collegiate, ivy league, relaxed, rugged, masculine, and ultimately sexy, not gratuitously sexy, but boyishly handsome sexy. I’m all for that!

 

The store is a visual paradox; it is ascetically sleek, and modern balancing the traditionally styled clothing, thus making the clothing appear more contemporary. An oval ivory colored Carrerra marble staircase runs up three floors. It’s almost a dollhouse version of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim, it is both dizzying, and feminine in its shape, despite the preponderance of testosterone driven merchandise. Vari-Vue © wall graphics magically transition the main floor to the lower level, moving with customers as they descend, or ascend. There are no radical mannequins, props or fixtures, in fact, the visual elements are perfunctory at best, but does manage to keep the eyes on the prize, GANT clothing. Clothing that relies on an amalgam of fabrications like tattersall, gingham, window pane checks, cashmere, tweeds, twills, wools, tartans, lumberjack plaids, herringbone, cable knits, argyles, flannel, leather, and suede. Clothing is neatly folded and colored blocked, running up the walls in grided out cubes, peppered with leather and cloth bound library books, stacked as neatly as the sweaters.

The music in the store appeals to the older set, (like me) accustomed to the seductive stains of Hall & Oates, Seals & Croft and Simon & Garfunkle, an altogether jazzy mix of 70’s-80’s nostalgic make out music. Adding to that equation, the intoxicants included a bubbly chardonnay, and pumpkin infused martinis served with a Macintosh apple wedge, which seemed terribly Upper East Side, and fit in to the Dalton graduated crowd. As do most charity events, the hors d’ oeuvres were served on oversized white plates with sea grass strewn beneath the grilled shrimp, rolled chicken with asparagus, mini-croque Monsieur’s and pate on de-crusted bread.

He may not have ants in his pants, but the Sartorialist arrived fashionably late, donning dark washed jeans rolled up above his ankles, revealing his sock-less cordovan oxfords, a trend he long ago first identified. The many attractive men were equally attired in designer jeans mixed with their casual Friday‘s blazers. They appeared like a busload of Anglo-Saxon extras from the set of John Guare play, all so beautiful, I only fell in love three times for real.

My slant on GANT may not be fully justified. So I’ll encourage you to visit their stores, visit their website www.GANT.com and you can decide for yourself. I on the other hand now have another refuge in the fashion storm, GANT.

 

For Mario

Every gentleman needs three reliable people in his life, a good doctor, a good tailor, and a good barber. Luckily, I have all three.

My barber has the ability to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. If you saw my hair, you would grasp the analogy. My barber is very cute; he always asks me how I want my hair done, as if I had a choice. I have so little hair left that there is unfortunately only one way to go, think Yul Brenner, or Demi Moore in “GI Jane“. I study the cut out collage on the wall with photos of David Beckham, Mark Vanderloo, and Patrick Dempsey. This is not to be. I will emerge looking like Daddy Warbucks younger brother no matter what I do.

My barber is named Mario. Mario is of Italian descent. His patouage suggests a Roman or Milanese lineage. Mario is of indeterminate age, somewhere safely between 50 and death, yet he is vibrant the way a cello is, seasoned and resonate. He is a tall, elegant man with slender fingers. His pants are pressed, and he always appears immaculate. You will note a book on his counter, Mario reads. Mario’s eyes are pale, and his features are so sharp he could have been painted by Van Dyke. Like most barbers, we talk about the weather, current events, and work, but then the conversation turns. Like the thin wasps of hair that are cut from my crown, the story of his life spill from Mario’s lips.

I cobble together the story. Mario was a young boy during the war (WWII), too young to serve, but old enough to absorb its horrors. He lost most of his family. He mentions his mother in hushed, respectful tones. Even after the allies arrived, Italy, and its economy were devastated; there were few occupational options for an adolescent to pursue. The country remained in turmoil. People starved. I see scenes from “The Bicycle Thief” and “La Strada“. Mario reasoned that despite circumstances everyone always managed a few lira to get their haircut. A pragmatist, Mario arranged to apprentice in a local barbershop. This classic form of instruction meant long tedious hours, working one’s way up from sweeping the floor, thanklessly sterilizing tools, and practicing the art of the shave. Students were offered the privilege of learning a trade without benefit of remuneration. Mario survived by playing the accordion, a concertina, to amuse customers who might offer a small coin in exchange for a favorite folk song. Mario scraped by on those coins. It sounds almost as pastoral as an old Capra movie. I imagine Mario plays quite well, I am certain his voice is precise and golden, sotto vocce. Mario still plays for his family at gatherings. Unlike today’s students, Mario slept in a back room, in a corner, no proper bed, just a mattress for several years. Like an obedient, pet Mario was happy to be somewhere safe and warm. Over time, Mario slowly managed to work his way up. The master barbers were orthodox men, practically surgeons in tonsorial arts. They were dictatorial in an age of fascism. They taught by rote. They demanded perfection. Their standards were high. The hierarchy of the shop rested on three chairs, one could not rise until one of the other barbers, died, retired, or left.

In time, Mario earned his chair and kept it, but years had passed, Mario longed for something beyond the third chair. That something was unlikely to be found in Italy. Like many young restless men, Mario scrimped and saved in order to book passage to America.

Mario has a small station at the famed Astor Hair, on Astor Place, in NYC. In the 1980’s Astor Hair reached its hey-day. Its fame rests on the salon’s clientele, actors, hip-hop artists, and suburbanites from Jersey and Staten Island who heard that so & so one got his haircut there. Indeed, the walls are littered with fading photographs of Vanilla Ice, Robert Downey Junior, Corey Haim, Sinbad, John Cusak and A Flock of Seagulls. Haircuts cost 12.00 to 14.00, a bargain. For that price, Mario will also trim your eyebrows, remove the garden from your ears and nostrils, and then give your scalp a hot towel massage. Which is so relaxing you may require a cigarette afterwards. When you are done, he will smile. Unlike other barbers he will not need to show you the back of your head in a hand held mirror, you will know it looks right. There is no debate. Mario is a remarkable barber because he is a remarkable man.

Our lives are frequently touched by remarkable people, so I am saddened to think that throughout the week dozen of men sit in Mario’s chair, so consumed with their own lives that they give no thought to the remarkable trajectory of his life.