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

Men In Seersucker Suits

They are as attractive as Harold Hill and as charming too. They are in their Seersucker suits of blue and white stripes. The stripes are so slim as not easily distinguishable from one another from so far away, and therefore appear almost pastel under inspection. The fabric is buckled and nubled just enough to want to draw your hand over a thigh or lapel. The fabric has what old time Garmento’s call “tooth”. Men in Seersucker are quaint. There may not be a veranda or straw boater available, but it does not diminish their versatility. They look cool, and almost costumed. I look forward to seeing them every summer. They are as welcome as ice cold watermelon on the Fourth of July… very! Men in seersucker aware mavericks in our sea of grey uniforms. They wear their seersucker suits with cotton pique shirts in pink, ivory, butter, surf and eggshell. They wear silk bow ties that look “jaunty” and colorful breast pocket scarves from Hermes. They see the world as a kind of stage, and pose like an extra in a scene in Long Day’s Journey or The Glass Menagerie. Seersucker speaks to continuity. Seersucker is generally an unconstructed jacket, light weight and free from pads and linings. The pant is pleated, and sold with an expansion waistband, presumable to free men from restructure after the second helpings have been passed. The pant is worn with suspenders which serve to add to the authentic old fashioned appeal of the garment. Men in seersucker are dear, elegant and poetic.

What you need to know about the history and manufacture of “seersucker”…

The word “Seersucker” came into English from Hindustaniwhich itself originates from the Persianwords "shir o shekar," meaning "milk and sugar", probably because of the resemblance of its smooth and rough stripes to the smooth surface of milk and bumpy texture of sugar. It’s sort of dreamy, isn’t it?

Seersucker is woven in such a way that some threads bunch together, giving the fabric a wrinkled or puckered appearance in places. This feature causes the fabric to be mostly held away from the skin when worn, facilitating improved heat dissipation and promoting air circulation. It also means that pressing is not necessary. A huge attribute in the summer months.

During the British colonial period seersucker was a popular material in Britain's warm weather colonies. When Seersucker was first introduced in the United States it was used for a broad array of clothing items. For suits the material was considered a mainstay of the summer wardrobe of gentlemen, especially in the South, who favored the light fabric in the high heat and humidity of the summer, especially prior to the arrival of air conditioning. Seersucker remains identified with the South and the gentrified period of the Antebellum. Seersucker is so beloved that the US Senate holds a Seersucker Thursday in June, where the participants dress in traditionally Southern clothing.

The fabric was originally worn by the poor in the U.S. until undergraduate students in the 1920s, in an air of reverse snobbery, and rebellion began to wear the fabric. Damon Runyon wrote that his new habit for wearing seersucker was "causing much confusion among my friends. They cannot decide whether I am broke or just setting a new vogue."

Seersucker is made by a process called slack-tension weave. The threads are wound onto the two warp beams in groups of 10 to 16 for a narrow stripe. The crinkle stripe may have slightly larger yarns to enhance the crinkle. The stripes are always in the warp direction and “ongrain”.

 

Men In Khaki Pants

It is summer. I know it is summer not by the temperature or calendar, not by the solstice or fresh peaches arriving in the supermarket. I know it is summer by the parade of men wearing their khaki pants around town. Who told them it was time, was it instinct? They wear them to work and to mow the lawn. They wear them to the park on Saturday afternoon and to Church on Sunday morning. They are worn pressed sharp as folded paper or un-pressed like crumpled scraps. They are worn with braided belts, or canvas stripe belts with D-clips buckles. They are worn by the models in the Ralph Lauren ads and on occasion by Martha Stewart. They are worn with brown, cordovan and black shoes. They are worn with equal aplomb with tennis shoes or fancy tasseled loafers. They are worn cuffed or rolled up revealing a bit of colorful socks from Paul Smith or perhaps no socks at all like Milianians on the Sartorlist. They are dressed up or dressed down. They are accessorized with elements from the men’s furnishings department at Brooks Brothers or the under $5.00’s at H & M. They are worn by men who are heavy and men who are slight. These men are wearing their khaki’s with starched Oxford button downs with colorful Rep ties with navy blue blazers. They are comfortable, and read as “relaxed” as if the wearer is anticipating a leisurely bar-b-queue, croquet in the Hampton’s. Khakis are a multi-purpose garment that can be worn to Yankee Stadium and the Vatican and not seem to be thumbing its nose. Khaki’s defy time and remain fashionable. Men weaning khaki’s are carrying messenger bags, briefcases and satchels. They are listening to their IPods or checking their text messages. Some are playing Angry Birds and cry out loud when they lose or win. However these men are on the subway and on their way to work to office jobs in mid-town and Wall Street. They are going to desk jobs at Delloite & Touche, Bloomberg News and BBD & O. Men look boyishly handsome in their khaki’s.

What you need to know about the history of “khaki”…

Khaki has a fascinating history. In the mid-1800s, British soldiers in India began dyeing their white uniforms to a dusty color using "Cutch" a derivative of the khair-tree or catechu (Acacia catechu Linnaeus f. Willdenow) as a form of camouflage. The dye created the color khaki an Indian word for dust, earth, and ashes. Khaki colored articles were reserved for military wear only. After WW1 wearing it was prohibited by US law. When US soldiers returned to civilian life post WW2 they continued to wear their military khaki colored chinos especially to college where it became an important part of the preppy look, especially when worn with button-down shirts and penny-loafers. Khaki colored chinos began to be commonly worn by angst ridden teenagers in high schools as a form of rebellion as most schools had dress codes prohibiting wearing jeans. Khaki the color was so common that the pants which are really known as Chino's were also called khakis

The Man In A Glen Plaid Suit

 

Glen plaid is a euphemism for a Glen Urquhart plaid or Glenurquhart check, which is a woolen fabric with a woven twill design of small and large checks. Glen plaid colors are usually comprised of black on white, gray on white and/or muted colors. The signature pattern has two dark stripes over two light stripes alternating with four dark stripes over four light stripes, forming a crossing pattern of irregular checks. It doesn’t sound like too much does it? My, but oh, it looks “smart”.

The name is taken from the valley of Glenurquhart in Inverness-shire, Scotland, where the checked wool was first used in the 20th century by the New Zealand-born Countess of Seafield, aka Nina Caroline Ogilvie-Grant to outfit her gamekeepers. Tally-ho! Release the hounds! Thus, Glen Plaid has an association with gentrified sportswear. The name Glen plaid does not commonly appear before 1926, and becomes popularized somewhere in the mid 1930’s, but examples of Glen plaid are found as early as 1908.

Glen plaid is sometimes nicknamed the Prince of Wales check, as it was popularized by the Duke of Windsor when he was the Prince of Wales. Style icon Cary Grant favored Glen plaid suits, as did his predecessor Humphrey Bogart. Ever the Scottish iconoclast, James Bonds’, Sean Connery and Daniel Craig are seen in their films donning Glen plaids. Pee-wee Herman is famous for his light grey Glen plaid suit, and US President Ronald Reagan was considered "un-Presidential" in a gray-and-blue Glen plaid suit when on a European trip in 1982.

A man in a Glen plaid suit will always stand out in a crowd of grey, navy and black suits. Glen plaid seldom disappears from popularity. It’s a perennial staple of the well dressed man's wardrobe. Glen plaid seems not to be subjected to fads or trends. Granted, in the 1970’s there were some loud, if not aggressive Glen plaids that dated very quickly, but over all, a restrained Glen plaid is a classic, otherwise would our Tom Ford ever fail us?

A Glen Plaid Memory

In 1981, or so, they were re-casting Michael Weller’s wonderful play, Loose Ends. It was for a national tour. I was asked to read. I had studied the part of the lead, Paul Baumer in my classes at HB Studio with William Hickey and not to miss a trick, with Stella Adler. I was the right age, about twenty-four. I knew the scene backwards and forwards, and I knew the text like the back of my hand. Regardless, I was well aware that nothing is for certain in the unpredictable world of the theatre.

The audition was scheduled at the Nola in the basement of the Ansonia Hotel. The Ansonia Hotel, once he most desirable addresses in all of New York, where Ziegfeld had a penthouse was at that time a rundown transient hotel, where psychic, Alice Woodbury now held court. For five dollars Ms. Woodbury told me to buy freesia, and that good things were coming my way, but not until after the next phase of the moon. Huh? What?

The Nola was always a madhouse with multiple castings going on at the same time. I found the Proctor, an officious theatre queen, who gave me my sides, and warned me not to stray too far because he was only going to call my name once, just once (repeating for emphasis), when I was up. Obediently, I complied and sat quietly, preparing emotionally to be told that my wife, Susan does not want children, and in fact, wants to abort our baby. I had all my actions plotted, motivations secure, knew what my needs were, and already devised a little sense memory to force up some tears. Stanislavsky would be impressed.

The Proctor called “You, you with all the credits, you’re up!” and pointed in the direction of several concurrent auditions in the main rehearsal hall. Clearly lost, and sensing my confusion, he interjected before I could even inquire, “The guy in the checkered suit, now go!” There was no guy in a checkered suit, let alone a blazer, there was a guy in a Tattersall, a guy in a pin stripe, there was even a guy in a herringbone, but there was no checkered suit. I surveyed the scene, and spotting what I thought might be the Casting Director inquired, “Do you mean the guy in the Glen plaid suit?” “Yeah that’s what I said…checkered, checkered means plaid!” was his retort. Note to self: never debate with a Proctor.

Playing the part of a court jester, seated behind two card tables was a schlubby assistant in an “Engelbert Humperdinck on Broadway” tee shirt, eating a ham sandwich. Seated next to him was m’ lord, the Casting Director. Atractive men are like Kryptonite to me. Yes, indeed, indeedee do! Dressed in a perfectly impeccably tailored Glen plaid suit, probably fitted by Carlo at Brooks Brothers. The shoulder were peaked, and the jacket had side vents that revealed a navy acetate lining. The pants were cuffed, and the creases pressed so tightly that his pleats weren’t wrinkled from hours of sitting. The lapels were notched, and the cuff buttons were kissing. The breast pocket was stuffed with a colorful scarf, a signifier reporting, yes, I am gay in case it wasn’t obvious. It was text book style and I’d easily give him a B+. Too attractive for words, I was left to wonder, why is this gentleman not on the stage. He gives me the once over and his eyes scan me like a bar code reader.

CASTING DIRECTOR: (reviews resumes) You have great credits, but this time we’re really looking for a blonde (Kevin Klein, a brunette, was cast originally)

ME: I could act like a blonde

CASTING DIRECTOR: Cute.

ME: No really, I could be a blonde in as early as thirty minutes, ash, champagne or strawberry. They sell Clairol at Walgreen’s.

CASTING DIRECTOR: We’re looking for a natural blonde.

ME: In New York City? The last time a natural blonde was on stage Mary Martin was hooked up to wires.

CASTING DIRECTOR: I just don’t see it.

ME: I should have known.

CASTING DIRECTOR: Pardon.

ME: Well, at first glance I thought to myself, now there’s a man with taste, style, someone who can discern whats what; you know discriminating, but...

CASTING DIRECTOR: But…but…but…

ME: It’s not you…It’s the Glen plaid.

CASTING DIRECTOR: My suit?

ME: The suit, oh don’t get me wrong, It’s very nice…but…

CASTING DIRECTOR: But what?

ME: Now that we’re up close, I see the problem.

CASTING DIRECTOR: With the way I’m dressed?

ME: The shirt and tie are all wrong. You might have a keen eye and ear for casting, but…

CASTING DIRECTOR: What’s wrong with my…

ME: First, If you don’t mind me saying so, the striped shirt is too pronounced, the width of the stripes is disproportionate to the size of the plaid, and that tie, it’s….its distracting

CASTING DIRECTOR: I paid 45.00 for this tie. It’s a Countess Mara.

ME: Shame on her! She shouldn’t have sold it to you, diagonal stripes on a striped shirt, underneath a plaid? What was she thinking? Maybe Jeff Acquilon could pull it off on the cover of GQ, however…

CASTING DIRECTOR: Do you do costumes or something?

ME: What you need is a pale blue pique shirt with a spread collar and a solid tie in aqua marine or better yet...Safire.

CASTING DIRECTOR: I do?

ME: Yes, you definitely do, it says I have confidence, I don’t need to try so hard, so don’t mess with me. Now here’s what you need to do, after the call today get yourself to Saks and ask for Martin on four, tell him that you know Leeander, and you need him to pick out something along the lines of a Rex Harrison, Richard Burton, Omar Shariff kind of thing.

CASTING DIRECTOR: Okay! Okay already, I’ll let you read.

ME: No, the romance is over. It will never do. You’ll never see me as Paul.

CASTING DIRECTOR: Can you sing and dance?

ME: I can, but Loose Ends is a drama, it doesn’t call for singing or dancing.

CASTING DIRECTOR: No, but I’m casting a road company of Pippin next week.

ME: It just isn’t my day! No, it will never do I know Bob (Fosse) and he’ll never permit it.

CASTING DIRECTOR: You know Fosse?

ME: Not well, but we had a terrible row over Gwen (Verdon) and he…swore to…

CASTING DIRECTOR: You may not be a Paul or a Pippin, but I think I just found my new best friend.

ME: You get that Glen Plaid thing corrected first, and I tell you what, don’t call me, I’ll call you.

Into and out of my life that day went a man in a Glen plaid suit. Whatever did become of him? He went to Hollywood.

Two Wrongs Don’t Make A White

 

“Is that one of those Chanel white ceramic watches (retails for 7,840.00)?"  inquiring friends will ask me. To which I have to scoff, “Are you serious? Do you even know me? I got this off of EBay for 19.99, not including shipping.” Okay, it might fool my friends, but no one at Chanel would mistake their watch for mine.

My white watch has been described as “Cool”, “Hot” “Ghetto Chic”, “Classy” “Gangsta Couture” and “Hipster”. Whatever it is, it’s white, and it does stand out in a world of black, stainless steel and leather and rubber watches.

If forty is the new thirty, then white is the new black. This is not a fad, it’s a trend, and are you prepared?

Once upon a time wearing white before Labor Day was a sin against the nation, but now is one of fashions top trends.

“You know; they can get you in East Hampton for wearing red shoes on a Thursday...and all that sort of thing. I don't know whether you know that. I mean; do you know that? They can get you for almost anything.” Edie Beale

White as in new and improved detergent white is the right white, not ivory, not eggshell, and not antique or china white, but pure as that blossom of snow, edelweiss white is de-rigueur.

It’s not just me reporting that white is this year’s key color…

"White is so bright we're calling it optic white," says Andrea Praet, Trend Director for the New York fashion-forecasting firm www.stylesight.com Ms. Praet says fall will continue the trend with winter whites from optic to creamy hues in knits, furs and accessories. "There are no more fashion rules," she says about the color that designers are offering as a trans-seasonal look "from summer into fall and beyond."

Fashion author Tom Julian, who operates a New York retail consultancy, says many designers opted for white as a way to offset the season's vivid color palette. Julian is also the style expert for www.oscar.com, a website that features the annual red-carpet looks at the Academy Awards.

Sonya Cosentini, Style Expert for T.J.Maxx and Marshalls, says women worried about pulling off the trend should consider wearing a single white garment (the little white dress is her favorite) as the foundation for the fresh look. "and build on it with colors that complement one's skin tone." Balance, she says, is the key. "A little white dress looks great when it's popped with either color or neutral shades."  The latter also an important trend in footwear and handbags. "Because white is a classic color, anyone can integrate it into a wardrobe."

Trend Forecaster, David Wolfe has a real-time spin on the trend. "It's time to lighten up," says Wolfe of the New York-based Doneger Group that advises clients from Target to Dillard's on what women want. "People are so tired of wearing black - it's sad and downbeat and reminds us of the bad news in the world that has us exhausted and burned out." He says. "White, is optimistic."

So ask yourself this are you “white on?”

Read more: http://www.mysanantonio.com/default/article/BRIGHT-WHITE-1345097.php#ixzz1KBhUsvAj

Courtesy of www.retaildesigndiva.com where it appeared on

1975: The Year of Dressing Dangerously

1975 was not a great year for fashion. It was not a great for many things. Life in a small town, a suburb, is a place we retreat to because it changes so slowly no one could possibly notice. Life in South Orange is therefore perfect, much as if it was in 1974, and will be in 1976. Fashion does not really apply to the equation of our lives.

 

What are we, teenagers wearing? We are wear an amalgam of polyester flares, synthetic acetate shirts in art-deco patterns, wallabies, overalls, cowl necks, scoop necks, denim wraparounds with patch pockets, Keds, Capezio leotards, Indian print skirts, neck rings, wooden clogs, granny dresses, Icelandic and Fair Isle sweaters, three quarter leather jackets, uptight Peter Pan collars with fussy bows, rabbit fur, bohemian peasant blouses, studded jeans, and a dozen other fashion wrongs. We want to fit in. We want to be accepted, and therefore conform to the “norm”, whatever it may be, but at the same time, we want to assert our identity, and we are struggling to figure out whom we are.

Teenagers seldom know who they are or who they want to be, so they rebel to whatever is placed in front of them. I however am an old soul, and unlike my peers, I know exactly who I am, and what I want to be. I may be riddled with insecurities and self-doubts, but I have confidence and self-assuredness. I openly challenge authority, when I deem it necessary. I will stand up in class and disagree with teachers and students. I am not afraid to give a bully a tongue-lashing, or call out bigotry when I see it. I do not want to be seen as an outsider, but if I am ostracized, which I am frequently, I take it on the chin as my badge of honor. I know that actions have consequences. I’m certain some people see me as insufferable. Yet others will pull me aside, swear me to secrecy, and tell me that they think I’m cool and crazy. I just proceed and go about creating myself.

 
The economy is in recession, ergo, TV games shows are the rage, Wheel of Fortune premieres on NBC, and critics question its longevity. A woman who no one in America has heard of takes leadership of the Conservative Party in the UK, thus ushering in global conservativism, her name is Margaret Thatcher. The press calls her "Maggie". No one seems to take notice. The Watergate scandal still lingers as former United States Attorney General, John N. Mitchell, and former White House aides, H. R. Haldeman and John Ehrlichman, are sentenced to between thirty months and eight years in prison. In Detroit, Teamsters Union President, Jimmy Hoffa is reported missing, and is believed to be buried alive in cement in the new Shea Stadium, building does not commence. In Sacramento, California, Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme, a follower of jailed cult leader Charles Manson, attempts to assassinate U.S. President Gerald Ford. Shortly thereafter, President Ford survives a second assassination attempt, this time by Sara Jane Moore in San Francisco. Phew! Close calls! NBC airs the first episode of Saturday Night Live, Chevy Chase’s parody of Ford’s frequent assignation attempts and his propensity for being accident prone captures the cynicism of the counter culture. Fugitive heiress and SLA (Sibinese Liberation Army) abductee, Patricia Hearst is captured in San Francisco after a terrible shoot out in an impoverished neighborhood. She is found cowering in a closet. The gender bending Rocky Horror Picture Show comes out and almost instantly becomes a cult classic with mid-night viewings where patrons recite lines, dress like characters and throw toast at the movie screen. Notable deaths are many, actress, Susan Hayward, Greek shipping magnate, Aristotle Onassis, Our Town, playwright, Thornton Wilder,  Twilight Zone writer and host, Rod Serling, and beloved TV father, Ozzie Nelson. All of this shapes the world. It infiltrates our lives like a fly in the house, we see it, we hear it, we swat at it, but it escapes us, so we learn to live with it, and hope in time it will all go away.

1975 is a strange transitional time. We are sophomores and juniors in high school. We are sixteen going on seventeen. Yet none of us are Leisel’s or Rolfs. We were too young to be hippies and rail against the war; we were too old to be post conservatives or disco queens. We were born on the tale end of the baby boom. Inadvertently we were the beneficiaries of both sides of the cultural spectrum.

But them something totally unpredictable happens. We (a small insignificant high school in a small town) appear on that cultural landscape. We attract national attention. Our fifteen minutes of fame. South Orange/Maplewood stakes a claim and infiltrates the world, albeit briefly. Time Magazine, October 13th hit’s the newsstands, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi is illustrated on the cover in the hippy-dippy style including daisies, star lilies and poppies, and his beard is snowy white like Santa Claus. The cover includes the caption “Meditation: The Answer To All Your Problems?” Inside the magazine is a black and white photograph of students at Columbia High School in Maplewood NJ, people I know, who pass me in the hallway and pay me no never mind. The article promotes our schools progressive, if not liberal academic curriculum, which includes an elective in TM (Transactional Meditation). TM like EST (Erhard Seminar Training) is sweeping the nation. It is the fashionable thing to do. The article raises the issue if a public school should teach religion, and more importantly is TM a religion? Now many years later, thirty-five, what stands out is how we are dressed, not that students are sitting in a classroom reciting their secret “Mantra". The girls have their hair winged back. The girls have their cheeks rouged; lips glossed and power blue eye shadow. They have washed their hair with “Herbal Essence” and are wearing “Charlie” fragrance. They are dressed like extras from Room 222 or Welcome Back, Kotter. The boys have their shags blown dried like David Cassidy or Lance Kerwin in James At Sixteen. The boys are wearing jeans and button down shirts tucked in. The collars are pointy and unbuttoned to the second button so that you can see the gold chains with a perfunctory crucifix, star of David or Italian good luck horn. We did not need a Maraheshi, we needed a stylist.

 

  
Our life in high school was unique. We hit it just right. We were naive. We have a relaxed view of drugs and sex. It is no big deal in the mid-nineteen seventies. We are culturally fashionable, if not fashionably attired. Columbia High School recognizes that students smoke, so there is smoking courtyard were students and faculty can congregate to light up. This reduces problems in the restrooms. Obligingly, David Toma comes to lecture us about drugs, which provokes students to beat up a boy who challenges Mr. Toma’s credibility. Columbia High school offers electives in macramé, filmmaking and pottery, in addition to reading, writing and arithmetic. One of its mot popular classes is “Communications” with Stu; we “rap”, and call Mr. Richter by his nickname…Stu. It’s groovy. It’s as if he’s one of us. Or we might take Shakespeare with Dr. George, who was crazy and came in class dressed in character, as Othello, Hamlet or Juliet. We are not censured. We read Sherwood Anderson’s, Winesberg Ohio, Tolkien’s, The Hobbit, and Roth’s, Goodbye Columbus. Our teachers hold classes out doors. We sit in circles, not rows. The ERA (Equal Rights Amendment) is debated, but not passed. Regardless, girls are now allowed to take shop, and boys can take Home Ec. To distinguish myself from the crowd I bring a blank needlepoint canvas to class. It takes months to complete, but I manage a masculine looking lion with wild hair that is tangled with all sorts of feminine flowers. It looks like something Erica Wilson would do if she were on LSD.

The mid-nineteen seventies are a strange and dizzying time that no can define. It’s a time between times, a period between periods; it’s a bridge to nowhere. This accounts for the lack of definition. There are many fashion looks to choose from. Perhaps too many, there’s the Bonnie and Clyde look, the Gatsby look by Ralph Lauren, the Safari or Le Smoking look from Yves Saint Laurent, Halston’s, hot pants, the Leisure Suit, the Disco look. We don’t get our fashion sense from these sources, we rely on TV to educate us Mary Tyler Moore, Welcome Back Kotter, The Walton’s, Soul Train, Sonny & Cher, Starsky & Hutch, Get Christie Love, The Partridge Family, Charlie Angels is where we look to see how it is we should dress. This accounts for the fashion schizophrenia, clozapine not provided.

Without having any economic independence, limited access to fashion other than Bellin’s Boys Town on Springfield Avenue, Dan Manzi’s in Maplewood, NJ or Mink’s in South Orange Village, my only other options are thrift stores, which I frequent to the embarrassment of my family who equate it with poverty. Clearly, something we are not. I wear the same thing over and over again. My mother calls this “wearing it to death“. I wear the same gold crew neck sweater so often that the elbows are worm through, forcing me to scrunch it up past my elbows so no one will notice. I’m not aping the beatniks, but with clear influences to some “Jesus Freaks”, I wear a navy blue wool sweater without a shirt underneath, which is in 1975 the equivalent of going to school undressed. I wear a Coptic Cross pendant on a leather strand to emphasize my groove. I carry books like Rimbaud, Kahlil Gibran, Ionesco, Antoine Auturd, RD Lang, Rod McKuen,and James Baldwin. To be sure, no one on TV is dressed like me. I have created a look already perfected by Dylan, Dean, Donovan and the Doors. I refuse to wear jeans, and have a reputation for being not like the other boys. (Read into that what you like) and elect to wear pressed slacks, black or grey only. Because my sweater is long, I wear my belt outside, forgoing the pant loops and resting solely on my hips with my sweater artfully draped over the hem of the sweater. When it rains I take off my shoes and walk until I am sopping wet. I wear black side buckled shoes (purchased at Gem Bootery) on Voss Street, they have a square toe. I have a strange quirk of birth, prematurely grey hair (I’ve written about it in poior articles “Grey Matters” and “The Boy With Green Hair”). I do not color my hair despite constant torment and teasing. I grow my hair long, center parted and blow dry it forward to create a loose tangle of a mane. I could not be more conspicuous. I do not dress like the other boys. I do not dress like other people. I do not behave like the other kids with teen angst. I am polite and respectful so no one can take issue with my manner of dress. When my family goes out to eat the maitre'd's at “Rods” or “Victors 21” asks that I wear a jacket, which I obstinately refuse to do. My father a formidable figure knows this is a fight he cannot win. Oh, those poor maitre’d’s. My identity is clearly forged and articulated. There is an absence of style, and at the same time, it is all style. That is all it is. No one can take issue with me as I am fully dressed. I look like an elegant line drawing or illustration by Kenneth Paul Block. My look is almost a uniform, constructed, intelligent, and chic. It says notice me, but do not mess with me. It says I am not like you. 

Men On The Dark Side

 

Advertising recently has taken a turn. In prior articles, “Vampires in Dior”, “Rate Your Mate” and “What The Well Dressed Vampire is Wearing”, I have begun investigating this phenomenon.

Without spelling it out, imagery of men on the dark side seems to be all the rage in the fashion tabloids. In the ads something terrible has just happened, or is about to. The conquest has been made, or the pursuit is escalating. It’s cinematic. It’s theatrical. It’s breathtaking.

 

It reflects where the culture is, this dark side, sinister, foreboding, catering to the horrid, macabre, perverse, and the disenfranchised. Yet at the same time it seeks to elevate, to heighten our awareness, and reconsider what is power or truly powerful.

 

There is an abundance of black and white images, a world were color has been drained like blood. Where there is color, it’s monochromatic or bleached out. Its dusk, its dawn, its twilight.

 

The men may be well defined, and have Chelsea aesthetic bodies, but their faces are feminine, pale, albeit scruffy. Their hair is dressed in Physique Pictorial pompadour styles, and slicked back like Italian gigolos. Their lips are as rounded and as pronounced as a Los Angeles housewife. Clearly defined gender roles are blurred.

 

The men are beautifully suited in shiny silk, reflecting the moonlight, albeit in sizes just one size too small, as if their bodies, like their genetailia has swollen, and is about to erupt. It’s a world of recreational sex and sex as ownership. It’s a world of haute couture and costume. It's pretence. It's hedonism.

Where there are two men, which there often is, one is clearly in charge, more powerful and aware. He is upright and prone. The other is vulnerable, breathless and subservient, supine.

 

Luxury retailers seem to be enamored with this paradigm. D & G, Gucci, Chanel, Tom Ford, YSL, Prada, and Dior ape each other like Morse code, communication the same S.O.S. They like characters in the film do not seem aware they have wandered into the graveyard or basement. Regardless, danger is as obvious as the hand reaching out of the darkness. When we look at the ads we are the reflection in the mirror that their supporting player is shocked to see. We are cast as voyeurs.

 

Is it attractive? Yes. Does it work? Yes. Is it a fad or a trend? I say it’s a trend. It’s seems to be attaching itself to the culture like a parasite. It’s feeding off of the bland, of which there is much. It follows the spate of TV shows, films, and popular novels that associates current popular values like the “outsider” verses the mainstream as being more potent, more interesting and therefore more desirable.

We live in a limbo like world where protease inhibitors allow us to go on with our lives, albeit cautiously. It follows this epic period of sexual history where blood is equivalent to condemnation.  So desperate are we for any affirmation we seek to “normalize” the equation by saying that despite science being able to intervene and rectify the matter that we can still choose to exercise our prerogative, and freely proceed into the nether world of neither here nor there.

It’s a classic crisis of identity that is romanticized in novels. We have not come far from the 19^th century. It’s this desire for redemptive love that drives Jane Eyre to go back to Edward Rochester, or Catherine Earnshaw in Wuthering Heights to go back to Heathclift, or Bella Swan in Twilight to go back to Edward Cullen. 

The containment of an emotion is infinitely more interesting than the emotion itself. The ads are aware of this and shows us the eruption, the festering boiling pot.

We may never elect to live in this world but we are guaranteed to want to visit it safely from our homes and offices where we opt to live the most mundane lives.

A Man In Jeans

 

Like chocolate syrup on vanilla ice cream, a well-hewn pair of jeans on a man is like dessert. Granted, on first glance, a sundae seems common and ordinary; both confections balance the other, in color, texture, and taste. Good jeans are like this simple confection, jeans that fit correctly draw the eye to the body like sugar. Jeans are the single most produced item in the world of fashion. Their prominence cannot be underestimated. Jeans are like skin…only better.

I’ll paint the picture…after an exhausting day I found myself in one of New York’s most uncivilized neighborhoods…Times Square. The crossroads of the world, where tourists collide with Jerseyites shopping at Forever 21, and locals getting from the West Side to the East are forced to merge with people compliantly standing in line outside of the Olive Garden and Bubba Gumps. It’s an unsavory part of town riddled with neon and digital screens selling something to pretending to be culture, if you can consider HBO, Coca-cola, Rock of Ages, Baby Phat and L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics culture. Addicts on cue congregate outside of Mama Mia to beg and creepy men pass out passes to Lace, a “Gentleman’s Club”. Trust me; no gentleman has been in this neighborhood since George M. Cohen was hoofing it at the Rialto.

You can imagine my horror to see what appeared to be a bono-fied man of fashion exiting Sbarro like a hellion. He ran faster than the taxi’s on 51^st, which actually isn’t saying much, as the traffic rolls at a snails pace. The million-dollar question is…where does a man run? The curtain at Promises, Promises and Wicked rose over a half hour ago, so I ruled out the theatre. A dinner engagement seemed implausible, as he just had a slice. Too early for drinks with the guys, and nothing big was going on at the sports bars. I therefore reason that something nefarious was about to occur, oh, not a drug deal or illicit sex, but I presume he was meeting a colleague from a rival firm, secrets will be confided, confidential information will be exchanged, there will be an offer, and a toast will seal the deal. How do I know this? Simply by the astute forensics of his attire.

The jeans are dark wash, typically worn at an office where there is a “creative” environment, maybe advertising, event planning, perhaps a boutique real estate firm. The jeans were relaxed and cuffed just so, looking unintentionally turned over, but calculated and labored over to get them “just so”. There was no constraining belt. To be certain the jeans were snug, did not shift, and grabbed the behind just so. The jeans were from a better manufacturer, no tags or labels to readily identify them. The denim seemed artisanal, maybe from Gilded Age or Earnest Sewn, something one picks up at Bergdorf’s or Saks and absently mindedly placed on a Platinum MasterCard as these jeans cost over 250.00 If I use my chocolate syrup metaphor these were not of the Hershey or Godiva variety, these were imported Ghirardelli.

The footwear was black, not polished with a factory-scuffed toes and aged to appear like vintage boot wear. These were not picked up at Payless. In fact, they were statement pieces, like anchors. Something more appropriate for hiking that the mean streets of Herald Square. They were clunky, masculine, and hit the pavement with a thud, not a metrosexual clicky-clack.

His shirt was white, non-descript, and the cuffs were not buttoned, and therefore fell loosely beyond the sports coat. It was a shimmery white shirt unbuttoned, ala Tom Ford or a cast member from Entourage. If there as a watch, it was not visible, just a plain leather band hung from his left wrist.

The jacket was a dark blue windowpane. Tasteful, very GANT. A true classic. A light summer wool, with black plastic buttons and welted pockets. It was Ralph Lauren without all the pretense.

He carried a small leather bound portfolio. Black, sexy, shiny. He ran too fast for me to identify the maker, but if I were in Vegas, I’d place ten dollars on Burberry. He carried it tightly as if it had state secrets. I could see the imprint of the sweat of his hand smeared all over it. Cleary he wasn’t a spy, this fingerprints would be too easy to lift.

You ask if he was attractive. Criminy, he looked like a former child star, or someone who once tread the runway as he tried to figure out what to do with his life. If I was a stalker I’d set up shop. A man with a secret is always a wonderful thing. A man in a beautiful pair of jeans is a thing of wonder.

He Eats Alone At The Red Flame

In 1986, he was young. The world was his oyster. Now its twenty-four years later and he is fast approaching fifty. He may think of himself as young…ish. The world however has dismissed him as another old guy. This has not stopped him from being attractive. This has not stopped him from being desirable. Despite many poor life choices, he has made a success of himself, and delights in dressing the part. He is confidant. He wears his sex on a golden chain.

When he straddles the stools at The Red Flame Diner on 6^th and 44^th he may very well be mounting a prized palomino in the Hampton’s, his slacks are taut as his buttocks yield and remind the wait staff that a man has entered the coral. He eats at the Red Flame when he feels willful. While not slumming, it is a familiar place visited periodically, a throwback to New York of yore, a place that makes greasy fries, too sweet cole slaw, and flaccid garlic pickles, which seem to be the main course to his Reuben. A sandwich so thick that he orders without the intention to finish the second half.

His hairline once a black mop, might had led you to believe that he played backup for A Flock of Seagulls, an aspiration never achieved. Now his hair is tamed and broken by an unisex salon on the Upper East Side that boasts a celebrity clientele. He maintains his corporate coif just a cut too long so that the sides gently curl. He prides himself that he has never had to color, or comb over to compensate. Soon he will be fifty-five, his reckoning day.

His suits are from Hickey Freeman, Sarar and maybe for a splurge…Dunhill. This tells me he is a habituate of Madison Avenue. Yet, I think he’s not a card-carrying member of The Boys Club. His suits are dark, conservative, and personify restrained taste. That being said, he is a shirt queen. His shirts are hand tailored with darts, fitting to his frame. They are the colorful strips, and tertiary solids in colors like periwinkle, teal, lavender, dusty peach and golden yellow, from these shirts are ties always from Hermes, with its cute prints of elephants, foxes and colonial drums. The shirts have white French cuffs, worn with emblematic cufflinks of Egyptian turquoise scarabs, 1940’s silvery aircrafts and black onyx studs. I would guess it takes some Chinese immigrant at least one-half of a wasteful hour to starch those beautiful shirts correctly. With supreme confidence, I can say his closet is as well organized as the file folders in his lower left hand office drawer. He dresses for effect not romance.

If I were to walk a mile in his shoes, what would I learn in a pair of Fratelli Rossetti Chelsea boots? Polished with wax, not some gross applicator bottle purchased from the grocery store. A mile in his shoes might take me to his home, office, favorite Italian restaurant, or some surprising place like a bookstore with a backroom, or maybe some dank downstairs club that doesn’t open its door until 2:00 am, like Prague or the Pyramid.

He eats alone at The Red Flame. He dresses beautifully. Someday, if I get up the nerve, I might ask him if he’d like to share a booth.

The Diagnosis Was Style

I saw him the other night, the muscular man with a starched white shirt and glen plaid suit. I saw him once before. If he were in a Matt Helm novel, no good would come to him…or form him. This is a man who knows how to dress, a bad boy with style and taste. He stood as silent as the statue of Belvedere outside a moderately expensive eatery in Mid-town. You know… the kind of place “people” go. Chatter and riotous laughter spilled out onto the street along with thumping music with every yuppie exit and entrance. He had a look of contempt for all humanity. He was waiting for someone, or something, I’m not sure which. His silk tie was loosened, and hung like a limp pink noose round his neck. I almost wanted to grab it, and pull him closer, but why? A white pocket square was pressed, and folded with mathematical precision; it was akin to an obsessive piece of origami, it was so meticulous. John Hamm would look almost slovenly standing next to him. He had muscular thighs and what they call “guns”, meaning well-defined upper arms. Indeed, a classic V-shape with pronounced pectorals and a few abs to boot. There were the dead give-a-ways, like the tan Ferregamo loafers with white stitched lacing running around the toe and helix of the arch. Naturally, there were no socks, indicating he’s a fashion rebel, and likely peruses the Sartoralist on a regular basis. There was the tank watch and leather knotted bracelet... The whole look was masculine, orchestrated like a quartet, and calculated like a receipt for hardware. What put me over the edge was the driving gloves in aged tobacco. The die cut circles framing the knuckles, the way the snaps were artfully undone, and the way the cuff draped back over itself. Leather gloves on a sweltering evening, even if they were from Sermonetti, it was too…too much to digest. From his right hand hung a half-consumed cigar.  Ashes dared not fall way, and Art Nouveau like wisps of smoke rose like a ghost of dead lover. The plumes swirled around his body almost embracing it. His left hand periodically clutched the left rear of his buttocks, as if he was checking to see if his wallet was still there. He seemed strangely satisfied with himself, confidant as a cat, and content like a canary. This is not a man easily mislead. He had a five-o’clock shadow, albeit at eight o’clock at night. His head was shaved, and perfectly round, with strong angular facial features, including a cleft chin. The blue eyes were sad, not romantic or pretty. In fact, he looked like he might be a brut, prone to inflicting a little bit of pain, while he seduced you. His teeth were ever so separated in the front, just an oomph, almost endearing, certainly off-putting,  so that when he deigned to smile, dimples like slash marks would appear like fault lines, unexpected and almost cataclysmic. Then the phone beeped. Oh, to be sure, he knew who it was, but quickly checked the caller ID, as he listened, he drew long and hard on his cigar, taking something in more foul than the stench of the Ecuadorian blend. He replied “Yeah” them spit with such force, that several pigeons flew away for dear life. The phone was snapped shut like an explanation point, and deposited in the jacket pocket quicker than Matt Dillon could get his gun back in his holster. This was a man. A well dressed man. A man of sexual prowess and promise. When will I see him again?

 

An Ulyssus in The US (part one of two)

 
Some say that life is random, a disorganized series of events that seldom have to do with one another, others say that life pre-destined, fated by the Gods, and is therefore beyond our comprehension. Yet there is a strong contingency of people who will insist that life is filled with odd coincidences, déjà vu and serendipity, yet others will argue that like physics, actions have consequences, perhaps all this is true, or none of it. Today I sat with Don O’Neill, the Creative Director of the eveningwear company, Theia, www.theiacouture.com Consensus was not achieved between the too of us on our personal views of life.

This much we do agree upon, historically there is a strong connection between the Irish and the Greeks. It may kismet that this Irish lad, Mr. O’Neill, aptly named his company for the Greek Goddess of light. Indeed, geographically both islands, Ireland and Greece are know for being both verdant and desolate. One of Ireland’s most recognized citizens was St. Patrick, who was actually not Irish, but a Greco-Roman slave sent to Ireland. Ireland is not bereft of literary talent; hence, it may be no wonder that James Joyce’s Ulysses draws comparison between the classic Greek text and the melancholy Irish culture. All that being said, one might strain to try to think of a well know Irish fashion designer, let alone one enamored with Greek mythology. If you are not familiar with Don O’Neill, and the house of Theia, you soon shall be. If St. Patrick and James Joyce were alive today you can be sure that St. Patrick would be proselytizing from the pulpit on Theia’s design virtues, and Joyce’s, Molly Bloom and Josie Powell would be donning Theia evening gowns as they traversed dreary Dublin. There are many parallels between the Irish and Greek.

Theia was a Greek Goddess, while she had many attributes; it is Theia that endowed gold, silver, and gems with their ability to shine. She was after all, the goddess of light. It was Theia that granted the power for mere mortals to see sprits and ghosts, and indulge in divine prophecy and clairvoyancy. Theia was a powerful female, feminine and ferocious. If they make a film about her, its likely Angelina Jolie will be cast.

 
Before I tell you about the Theia, the eveningwear company, indulge in in introducing you to Mr. O’Neill. Mr. O’Neill is a natural redhead, what might be identified as a “Strawberry Blonde” by Clairol. Unfortunately, the wizards at Clairol have yet to come to anything as comely and authentic as his locks, which are strewn in wisps upon his ample forehead. His eyes are probably listed as brown on his passport, but are closer to freshly mined topaz or citrine. If an Irish brogue sets you off, the cadence and timber of his voice would make listening to the dullest lecture seem like an excursion to Shangri-La. Is he attractive? If you find other Irish brothers like Collin Farrell, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Liam Neeson and Cillian Murphy handsome, then yes, I suppose he is in good company.

Beyond his physical attributes, there is a pot o’ gold in the talent department. Mr. O’Neill may not be descended from jolly leprechauns, but place an ordinary Ticonderoga pencil in his hand, and it becomes a magic wand. With it, he has the ability to craft gowns of such wonder, that if Theia, the goddess, was to wear his signature white ruched empire gown to Zeus’ surprise birthday party, Aphrodite and Medusa would be green with envy.

 
Mr. O’Neill is not shy with using fabric. The average Theia gown has a minimum of over seven yards of fabric. Seven is of course a mystical number, associated with luck. In mythology, there are the seven sisters, seven sages, seven wonders, seven Greek isles, etc… Designers on Seventh Avenue who design around cost will roll their eyes, as their best gowns seldom go past four yards (to keep their costs down… to them…not you). Theia is about abundance, the way a dress moves, and the way a dress feels on the body. Theia does not compensate by using inexpensive materials. Theia conversely uses some of the best-imported European fabrics available in the world today. Mr. O’Neill does not scrimp. So how does Theia remain competitive? Naturally it is fiendishly clever, would Theia be anything less? The most expensive item in a luxury dress today is not the fabric, not the embellishments, not the labor, not even the advertising…it’s the label, just two square inches. That’s right; the American consumer is acclimated to paying well over a fifty percent markup just for a designer label. The typical consumer lives under the misnomer that the designers label suggests that the designer whose name is on the label, actually designed it. That is far from the truth. If I have shocked you, rest assured that the vast majority of designer clothing is designed by modestly paid in-house designers. When you purchase a Theia gown, you can have sweet dreams knowing that one person, Don O’Neill, actually designed it. I’m not suggesting he sat at his Singer, but he remains the only creative force of nature in the house of Theia.

 
 
Mr. O’Neill may not have a name that is readily recognized. Rest assured he is not a flash in the pan; his design provenance is working with Christian Lacroix, Carmen Marc Valvo, where he was the Design Director, and Bagley & Mishka, where he created their “Platinum Line”. He has paid his dues several times over.

Designers consciously try to communicate an idea through their designs. They have a vocabulary. For Theia, it’s about revealing a woman’s inner Goddess. What is the lexicon that O’Neill uses? His design idiom includes gowns that are usually ethereal, concoctions of draped and ruched silk, organdy and chiffon. This swirl of fabric is balanced by beautiful embellishments of beading, crystals, and metallic plugs that are strategically placed like armament. The gowns are boned and include sewn in intimates. Hence, no ugly bra straps. In fact, the construction within the apex pf the bosom is architectural, and I imagine that it feels like an angel is cupping your breast.

 
O’Neill in the tradition of folklorists describes an Irish childhood deeply rooted in magic. He grew up in between a beach and the ruins of an ancient castle. The Irish coast was his first sketchpad; the damp sand provided ample miles of blank pages in which he drew with long drift wood staffs. He perfected his big looping “signature” on the beach. One wonders how many dress silhouettes were swallowed up by the hungry ebbs and mermaids.

What happens when storybooks become real…living things? O’Neil mentions almost parenthetically that the shores outside his home were known for the ruins of an Irish church, which lies submerged in the emerald bay, where in olden days the Cantillon family would lay their dead on a special rock on the coast line; at midnight, as the tides rose, a fairy procession would emerge up from the “Church banks”, they would float across the waves like sea bubbles to pick up the body and carry it out to be buried in the submerged graveyard. Naturally, no mortal was allowed to watch, until one night a curious villager hid in the cliffs to watch, he was spotted by the fairies, and the fairies vowed to never return to take another body!

A fort that pre-dates the pyramids sits on a promontory high in the mountains opposite the home where O’Neill grew up in. Legend states that the high King of Munster once lived there. It’s also the same site and where the legendary Cuchulainn, an Irish hero, defended the land and aided many kings by fighting off marauding invaders. It’s a magical vortex that watches over Ballyheigue Bay.

The Golden Lyon a Spanish Galleon was wrecked on the beach in 1731. As children, he and his siblings played around its ancient wooden masts, which were still sticking up thru the sands that marked the spot where the ship sunk in to the sand after being lured to its demise by the villagers who set horses grazing on the cliffs with lanterns on their heads. Six chests of silver were taken of the ship that night, and disappeared into darkness and folklore. I detect a vindictive fairy at play.

Magical coastal sunsets were a dramatic close to everyday. O’Neill was certain that angels took turns creating mesmerizing sunsets every evening just for him. Mystery and magic swirled in the air throughout his childhood. If you are a disbeliever, check it out at http://wapedia.mobi/en/Ballyheigue

Please rerurn on Monday for Part Two of "An Ulyssus in The US"