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Thursday, January 31, 2008: I'm excited to announce a new collaboration with (the) Manolo (for the) Men 'blog. I'll keep writing longer pieces for this site, with shorter, snippier bits there. ManoloMen's Izzy will continue his magnificent-ness there, and I will add some sparkle of my own. Thanks to The Manolo!
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
the Black Fleece sale racks
A new thought: look at the "final sale" racks of a clothing store as the unburnt logs among the cold ashes of last night's bonfire. They just didn't take. Was it the fit, the price, or they stocked too many?
This is the image I couldn't escape when I saw the Black Fleece--Thom Browne for Brooks Brothers--racks at their Fifth Avenue store last month. Scottish cashmere sweaters, capes, funny-looking vests, the whole thing. But something about the merchandise didn't quite work: there was a lot of it.
I have a feeling the quantity of merchandise stocked in this case might have been a bit ambitious. Bergdorf Goodman is probably more discreet about what didn't sell from the original Thom Browne collection -- after all, you don't want to destroy the illusion that people are snapping it up like hotcakes. Brooks, on the other hand, needs to get rid of it and cover costs.
But the quality is there, and there's still something alluring about it being the first TB/BB collaboration. So are you the type of person to snap up these values? Four hundred for a Scottish cashmere cardigan instead of $800? Might be sort of nice in a few years, to pull out your Black Fleece that isn't available anywhere anymore. I certainly didn't budget for it, but I almost wish I did.
Some are calling the whole collaboration a failure (even though it's not over yet -- he has at least a FW08 collection, maybe more), and at its introduction I was sure I would call it that, too. Though the very idea of this collaboration has worked itself into so many otherwise normal conversations that it is definitely a success. It ruffled the feathers of the old fashioned Brooks customers (just imagine some of the comments from them, hobbling over to their usual salesperson and asking, "Howard, what is this garbage?!"), gave a lot of press attention to Brooks, and allowed Thom another year of coffee and toast at Pastis. I can't imagine that BB made significant money on the deal, but they got attention. With the turnaround that CEO Claudio Del Vecchio has been working on for a few years now (and that is definitely in high gear now), he needed a concept like Black Fleece just to remind people that Brooks is not sleeping. Your father can still get his suits there, but so can you. Not many companies with so much history have been able to revitalize themselves without completely pissing on the classic customers. Abercrombie completely re-did itself, so did Coach, maybe Louis Vuitton did too. If Brooks can sell both sack suits and shrimp suits, it'll be a hell of a coup.
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Thursday, December 20, 2007
Is it a Brand or is it a shirt?
In looking at a few successful luxury fashion brands you might conclude that to have such a brand you need to have been founded over 100 years ago, originally run as a family business, and to have made things very well for a very long time: Louis Vuitton started with steamer trunks, Gucci with small leathergoods sewn in Florence, Abercrombie & Fitch as a premier sporting goods store. But today what is undeniably strongest about each of these companies, and dozens of others, is the power of their brand. It is their shopping bags, their stores, the locations of their stores, their advertising, their merchandising, and their window displays. The products may still be excellent, but the Brand (capital B indeed) is the 135-ton diesel locomotive that pulls everything else along.
Lord Rufus Albemarle has figured this out, and in creating his new line of shirts, ties, and pochettes, simultaneously developed his Brand: the logo, the expensive embossed shopping bags, and the story to back it all up. It is perhaps a wise choice. When I first met him at Saks Fifth Avenue, I found him charming, his shirts extremely well-made, and his fabrics very soft. My next thought was: why does the world need another expensive dress shirt line? Within the narrow retail category of men's dress shirts, and the very narrow category of men's dress shirts costing more than $400, there are only so many things you can do to make your shirts distinctive. There is Fray, Brioni, Kiton, Borelli, Charvet and surely a few more. All made by small Italian or French factories. With well-made details. And expensive fabrics. Now there is Albemarle. Why?
It turns out it's because Rufus, most recently an industrial designer, wanted to build a brand. Quality men's dress shirts seemed a good route. The shirts themselves are quite well-made, and unique to the marketplace in that the retailer can choose the level of handwork in their shirts: the basic but luxurious HS-2, the HS-4, or the princely HS-6. (They are priced accordingly.) His necktie collection is attractive and hand-sewn. The pocket squares are elegant, with hand-sewn edges. Rufus himself is quite fanatic about the quality of the shirts and the individual components; even though he is preparing his Brand to indeed be powerful, he has not lost even one detail in how a quality shirt is made or how color stories are told. He is thorough and precise about the details, and passionate about the aesthetics.
But isn't there something backwards here? For me, what makes an established maker attractive is its history, its reputation, and its seemingly humble origins. What makes a new maker attractive to me is the clear passion before all else, the evidence of blood, sweat, and tears. (Think of Trovata before they broke up, or the guys behind Operations.) Albemarle instead has the refined business approach of an established brand. The story is strong, the products are beautiful, the PR agency is already hired. In any other field that's the only way to start. (If the brand is going to be the locomotive, put it first.) For some reason I still see clothing differently. Perhaps I am still too romantic about it. Perhaps I could never be a businessman about shirts: I love them so much I don't want to see the business behind them.
In any case, I'm certain that you will soon hear about Albemarle elsewhere. You will notice the shirts in a store, or see the logo on someone's shopping bag. I doubt anyone thought we needed more shirts when the English shirt brand Thomas Pink was founded in 1984, either. Though if they're an indication of potential, Albemarle could do very, very well.
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Thursday, December 13, 2007
find yourself a salesperson
 A rare public glimpse into the training room at Brooks Brothers, 346 Madison Avenue. Sales associate Tom Davis presiding.
Don't you always want to ask for your-friend-the-doctor's tips on healthcare? Although it's not life-or-death (for most people), I want to know what the professionals in clothing have to say to those of us just trying to look good and feel good trying. It's a jungle--all the clothing stores, the discounters, the global brands. Can't someone please help?
This week I begin a series of occasional columns, worked in with the rest of them, that will ask professionals within the clothing business for their advice. I am a glutton for inside information--those of you with stock tips, please send me a private e-mail--and no one is more full of it than the people working in the business day-in and day-out.
I expect that usually this advice will come in the form of a dictum or a tidbit. "Shop on the second Thursday of every month for the best deals," or something. (We'll just have to see!) But when I asked Kelly Stuart, the manager of training at Brooks Brothers, she wrote me a whole essay. She's in the business of teaching, you see, so I thought she'd be the perfect one to kick off this idea.
As an aside, I must confess that I have a crush on Brooks Brothers right now. Part of it is seeing a company return to its more natural self--quality, tradition, and all--after a difficult few decades. Part of it is seeing the little ways they are modernizing, like their Regent fit for suits and jackets and, quite a bit more drastic, their collaboration with Thom Browne. Most of it, though, is because of their incredible desire to be transparent about their products. Kelly may actually be behind all of it (though I'm not exactly sure) because it's her training program that is spreading all of this information to employees. They are sourcing high quality materials, using good manufacturing, and trying to explain it all to their sales associates and ultimately to their customers. No tricks.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Kelly Stuart:
"Find yourself a salesperson who is, for lack of a better term, a teacher. By that, I mean someone who is broadly educated--and not just about clothes. This person should want to and be able to connect with you on a fundamental level, and that requires expansive knowledge on a number of topics that will allow him to not just know what is technically appropriate for wherever it is that you will find yourself, but what is specifically appropriate for you. Moreover, he has to be capable of understanding you and your lifestyle, even if he doesn't live your lifestyle. The best way I have found for knowing when you've found the right person is by first doing some independent research about a product that you might like to buy. Read, look on the internet, ask people whose opinion you value. Then begin looking for the person who will sell it to you. The right person can not only sell you what you're looking for, but also teach you something about the product that you didn't know and then relate that knowledge to how it benefits you in particular. The right person also asks you a lot of questions, and then listens thoughtfully, probably interjecting other questions to help you refine your response.
"In short, look first for a product that you like, and then do not stop looking until you've found someone who is devoted to teaching you how to interpret your most authentic self. This may seem like a lot of work to a man who thinks that all he is looking for is an umbrella or box of stationery. But in essence, you're looking for a mentor. A friend. A partner. And if you find the right person, he can direct you beyond your immediate needs and beyond the items he's responsible for selling. He's in it for the long haul. He exists, but he's hard to find."
With people like Kelly in charge of training departments at any store, we hope the number of this type of salesperson can only increase.
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Thursday, December 6, 2007
lost in translation
I prefer not to hear artists speak about or interpret their own work. If you have watched the director's commentary on the DVD of a really good film you might agree that an artist saying, "look how my art works!" really destroys any allure. An artist presumably chooses the medium of film (or canvas or clay or acid-free paper and pencil) because it transmits a more complete message. In 1937, Picasso could have just issued a statement through his PR agent, "war is bad and evil and nasty," but instead he painted Guernica. Somehow the effect lasted longer.
Lately I find myself talking about clothing to a lot of normal people--people not in the business, and not already so passionate about clothing--and I am reminded of the sticky situations you can get yourself in when describing clothing. Even seemingly safe words like classic or American or just "brown" can trigger a thought, or an experience. To hear that something is "classic" is to remind you of the guy you never liked in the cubicle next to you who always wore "classic" clothing. Ooops. Wrong word, even if it's true by the dictionary definition.
I think you have to get yourself into trouble with words first to realize how damaging they can be. Is that shoe dressy? Or is it formal? Or casual? Or less dressy? Ah, it's conservative. American. Is that suit slick? Or classic? I think it's a power suit. Or no, maybe it's Ivy League. Is the color of that tie green, or emerald? Is the suit brown? Though these words have accepted definitions, interpretations vary.
The legendary Arthur Jordan at Louis Boston first taught me the dangerous power of these words. ("Wield them with care!" he may or may not have said.) I specifically remember mini-lectures about the words green, brown, and old. Very, very dangerous, these words. In clothing, none of them usually carry a good connotation. Nobody wants a brown suit or an old shirt or a green tie. But a chocolate worsted, a proven style, or a hunter tie might enable us to continue the conversation.
Take this one step too far, and our result is a variety of words and statements that no longer mean anything in the context of clothing. When you work in clothing and read men's magazines and press releases and the trade weekly DNR, you see a lot of this. They're just space-fillers--very safe space-fillers. Classic. Redefining. Elegant. Sophisticated. Modern. (And my favorite, the phrase "modern classic.") The salesperson might say, "It's a business suit but you can dress-it-down with a pair of loafers and a polo shirt." Nothing is ever too anything. It's always just enough this, and just enough that, making it perfect for you, the average consumer. Yet this is how we have arrived at the current state of dialogue on men's clothing: it's bland and passive.
In sales, if forced to talk about a style, or a particular piece of clothing, it might be better to tell a story. The best retailers and salespeople know this very well. An adjective is a hard, defining word. A story is just as informative, and less definitive. It's up for interpretation, which is exactly what we want to say about clothing.
It's hard for some people with self-proclaimed rational minds to believe that these little words could have such an effect. We may like the idea of being objective and emotionless about our clothing, but it's just not possible. We can buy stereos and cars and houses without emotion: we can do it by numbers and reputation only. Clothing is one of the few areas where we have to rely on emotion and interpretation and sensitivity to guide us.
Thankfully, the clothes are already communicating whatever it is you may be trying to say with language. Just train yourself to listen, look, and practice. Then throw the words away.
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Thursday, November 29, 2007
to improve a shirt collar
 Arthur Wolf, with his invention.
Do you ever wonder where the little doo-dads and widgets in our clothing come from? Most have documented history of coming from military clothing (like the epaulet, or the flat-front trouser), or from workwear (like denim), or from being some sort of adapted holdover from a more elegant time (like the necktie). But look at your clothing and notice all the things that must exist for a reason, but we don't quite know why. Why is a shirt cuff made the way it is? Why do we have belt loops the way we do? For that matter, where did belts come from? I recently found myself interested in collar stays, those flexible little pieces of plastic that decorate the floor of my closet and belong in my shirt collars, keeping them straight.
Brooks Brothers is very proud of its story about being the first to introduce the button-down collar in the United States circa 1900 after seeing it worn by polo players in England. But as far as I know, no one has marketed the romantic story of the boring, functional, nearly-unchanged-in-85-years, collar stay--the story of the 12-year-old Viennese boy that invented it, patented it, and put it into production in his family's furnishings business simply because he didn't like the prevailing button-down collar. "I felt it was for babies!" he said. Like mittens that you clip onto your sleeves, I presumed. Maybe too fussy, or too precautionary.
I have known Arthur Wolf for a few years (he's the grandfather of a good friend) and heard anecdotally that when he was in the garment business he invented the collar stay. I guess I just believed it and moved on. But, wanting to know the whole story, I sat down with him last week in his home in Mamaroneck, New York.
And so the story goes: Arthur was 12 years old in 1922, living in Vienna and working for his family's men's furnishings business, called IWONA. They made sport shirts, dress shirts, and shorts. (Of the under-short variety.) I had to confirm this date with him more than once, because he explains it all so naturally, the way you might confirm that you did indeed buy milk at the store today. "Oh sure!" And he's quite clear: it was before his bar mitzvah that he got this patent. "They knew me at the patent office. I would come and bother them because you always had to research what was already patented."
His idea of the collar stay was exactly the same then as it is now, and in form (though not material) it is identical. He wanted a softer collar, like the button-down, but with the form and appearance of a stiffer collar. Plastic the way we know it today did not exist, so the prototypes were made from celluloid, a firm yet flexible material that had only one undesirable trait for putting into shirt collars: it is highly flammable. "One press of the iron -- poof!" he tells me. So they used metal, too, usually covered in fabric like in the photo above, until a suitable plastic was invented in 1925 or '26.
Getting it into the shirt was easy for him because he was so familiar with all the steps of production, being around it all the time. He figured out a way to cut back the bottom layer of the collar just enough to make an entry point, then sew a little pocket into it for the stay to slide in. A few other versions of the stay existed, too, but only the classic one survives today. (See the photo below for a multi-branch stay that worked the same way, but gave more structure to the collar point.)
Arthur's story continued in the shirt business for a few decades, moving to the United States, and within six months of arriving in New York getting another patent on collar and cuff production methods. He is unstoppable.
For me, I cannot insert two collar stays into my shirt anymore without thinking of Arthur. Such a clever idea, perfect from the beginning, unchanged to this day.
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Thursday, November 8, 2007
to see how it's made
I firmly believe that the meaning of professionally hand-made objects, if there is any at all, lies only with their user. Interpretation is up to you, since you may see the most beautiful thing in the world or instead just an expensive, indulgent object. As evidenced by this web site, I love well-made things. I love to imagine each bit of work that goes into a mechanical watch, or a shirt: the selection of materials, the knowledge, skill, and experience it takes to expertly execute each following step, and the attention to detail throughout. As a bonus, there are usually variations in the finished product, owing to the human sensibility involved.
Today my mind turns not to clothing but to pianos and their manufacture, owing to a documentary film I just saw called Note by Note, about how Steinway & Sons concert pianos are made. It is playing now at the Film Forum in New York, and is scheduled to show this winter in Chicago, Seattle, Houston, and Portland.
While I found the mechanics of the assembly the most fascinating part, the filmmakers focused more on the craftsmen who make them in the Queens factory and how they contrast with the artists fortunate enough to play them. The craftsmen seem to be precise and practical, with a sensitive streak running through them. Even though the guys look like tough guys, they know very much the kind of artistic product they're making, and they appreciate every ounce of the piano's 990 pounds.
But back to the exciting part: the assembly. Every day there are fewer and fewer makers of anything--pianos, watches, clothes, furniture--who still complete most steps by hand, the way they have always been done. But what I'm really loving to see lately is that these few remaining makers are more willing to open their doors to a customer or a film crew. They seem to be realizing that their secret of production isn't so much a secret; it's just that they take more time, use better ingredients, and look at it with a more exacting eye. In a word, "more." (Yes, more money, too.)
You might see factory tours as a type of customer service, or marketing. I prefer to see it as honesty in manufacturing in a time when there are more and more production shortcuts, off-site or foreign manufacturing, and machines to be hidden. It might also help them survive: Steinway's list price for a model D concert grand is over a hundred thousand dollars. For that price, owners and users have to not only feel and hear the quality, they have to be able to see it.
I know that Kiton, the clothing maker in Naples, sometimes opens its doors for private tours. Ferrari opens their doors to customers. So does Bentley. Many Swiss watchmakers offer tours to horology aficionados. Small clothing makers probably don't know what a factory tour is--instead they might just pull aside the curtain to show you the small room where they make your shirt, your tie, or your shoes. To get a Steinway factory tour you don't have to own one, just you just have to schedule your visit in advance.
The popularity of this type of transparency in production is spreading, and producers are realizing its value. Some companies may not be able to offer factory tours, but they realize how much consumers are valuing quality production methods, even if the cost is higher. From American Apparel to Rag & Bone to Brooks Brothers, they're touting their production locations and methods. I maintain that the meaning in any well-made object is for you to decide, but for me, seeing the origin certainly helps along the story in my mind.
If you know of other companies operating at the pinnacle of their craft and offering tours to prove it, please let me know. I would love to compile a list on The Materialist.
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Thursday, November 1, 2007
classic American style
Classic American style would probably like to believe that it has nothing to do with fashion: button-down collars, cordovan loafers, and gray sack suits were never so much in or out, they just were. Fashion, though, has its way of rearing its disingenuous head anywhere it wants to, which is how it came to be than in 2007 classic American style made by classic American manufacturers is of-the-moment.
The evidence of this love affair with American style, this romancing of the man in the gray flannel suit and his many accoutrements, is easy to spot. Thom Browne may rightfully be credited with reminding people that such a thing as American style existed, since he claimed to be so inspired by it, and more recently the designer Michael Bastian has made no secret of his harking back to Perry Ellis. Brooks Brothers, under the active leadership of Claudio Del Vecchio, is finally making its founders proud with its return to style and quality (and prices to match--you do get what you pay for), J. Crew has extremely successfully returned to strong American style, if definitely, most definitely not American make, and J. Press stood up and dusted itself off, at least for the Madison Avenue flagship and the website. If you're waiting for me to mention Ralph Lauren, fine, here's his mention, but I can hardly say he's coming back when his company's popularity never even faded.
I would like very much to say that this renaissance has no effect on me. I, such a wise one you know, don't pay attention to fashion, and have always appreciated certain bits of American clothing and not others. I never ask if something is in or out, I judge it on its own merits. But I find myself strangely captivated by American-styled and American-made clothing this fall. I lust for a pair of Alden cordovan boots (Alden, by the way, very American, very East Coast, and surely the last truly good, really good, shoemaker in the United States, and the cordovan, by the way, always from Chicago). Is it a coincidence that I have been looking at Filson (Seattle) lately for outdoor wear? Functional, extremely well-made, American. No soft cashmeres there! Just hard-ass scratchy wool and cotton canvas. My absolute favorite new thing is my Filson tool bag, perhaps not used for actual tools, but that's none of your business.
Is it possible that fashion has done us a service here? It came back around and reminded us of a few ideas. It updated them just a bit, in fits, fabrics, and cuts. With all of fashion's attention on American style, it reminds us all that there are quite a few good items worth having. Those of us interested in authenticity rush to the authentic makers: L.L. Bean, Brooks Brothers, Alden, Pendleton, and Filson. Those of us not so interested in authenticity, looking more for a modern interpretation, happily find it for a few years from the newer companies and designers.
So perhaps it's sad to say that this, too, will pass. Yes yes, I know that "classic American" is just that, and it will always be. In 10 years I'll still have my Filson bag, and if I can ever justify the Alden cordovan boots (model AF53, size 9, cigar shell cordovan, please) they'll be with me. But not everyone will be goo-goo gah-gah for it. The designers will be onto something new, or old, or reborn. And classic American style, bow ties and all, will resume its old-man status for another 20 or 30 years.
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Thursday, October 25, 2007
the obligatory wedding conversation
So you're getting married! Congratulations. And you want to know what to wear. This is a good one. There are a thousand options and possibly a thousand guides to tell you what to wear and how to wear it. As a now-experienced groom (as of October 13th, thank you very much), please consider me as one more source.
The magic advice is to listen to yourself. Even though you may think you don't know anything about clothing, you know more than most of the books, the guides, the wedding planners, even your future wife, if only because you'll be the one wearing them. This is true for any morning when you get dressed. While there are definitely better ways and worse ways to present yourself, it starts in a touchy-feely sort of way with how you view yourself.
Though before I keep going, I have to ask: are you prepared to actually take this advice? What I mean is, if you go back to the powers that be for this particular party -- the wedding planner, the future mother-in-law, the bride -- and tell them that you looked deep within yourself and examined your relationship with clothing and, drum roll, you want to wear skinny jeans and a hoodie sweatshirt on The Most Important Day Of Your Life, would they even listen to you?
If it promises to be a very produced wedding, save yourself all the agony and go along with whatever they say--the aforementioned planner, mother-in-law, and bride. It wouldn't be a battle worth fighting. Once you get to the tuxedo rental place (which is most likely where you will end up) I can steer you a bit. First, get it a size or two smaller than anything they put on you, and try to choose a single-breasted 1-button peak lapel jacket. And get your own bowtie, tie it yourself, and wear a pocket square. Oh, and buy your own shoes. The rental ones are plastic. Plastic shoes!
But if this is a planning crew that is receptive to what you may actually want to wear, think about your favorite thing to wear when you leave the house. Then imagine what might be one step further. Think about what might push you to feel "dressed up" more than you otherwise might. (I'm trying to avoid you saying you're comfortable in jeans and t-shirts, and therefore that's what you'd like to wear.) If you don't wear suits often, but might be comfortable in one, wear a suit! Maybe in a casual fabric: cotton or corduroy or linen, something other than dark and dressy wool. If you're always comfortable in suits, go one step further to a tuxedo. A sport jacket and nice trousers could look great, too, supposing your bride isn't dressing like a queen and dragging a 20-foot train behind her. (If that's the case, consult the English and wear a morning coat in the day or white tie and tails in the evening.) Or if it's a summer wedding outdoors, do like a friend of mine recently did: a guayabera shirt, tan trousers, and sandals. He didn't need a uniform to remind people he's the groom: the glow on his face sufficed.
To the best of your ability, consider it just one more day in your life. If your look is consistent with who you are, and you avoid wearing a costume that doesn't suit you, being yourself will be easy.
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Thursday, September 27, 2007
voting with your dollars, part 1
I answered the phone during another busy day in the wholesale office where I was working. I didn't recognize the gentleman's voice, which usually meant one thing: an individual customer, usually a peculiar type, but always a true clothing enthusiast. There was an extreme eagerness in his voice as he asked me if Saks Fifth Avenue in Chicago was going to have any Kiton button-down collar shirts this season, because he hadn't seen any new ones yet. "Let me check," I said. But before I could look up the order he blurted, "are button-down collars out?"
Score one for the Fashion Machine! We got another one to listen to our every word without using an ounce of his brain. Trembling with every purchase. Seeking our approval at every turn. He was not in control of his own decisions, and felt certain that the greater force of Fashion was, or should be. Thus his slightly paranoid question.
I assured him that there was no way that button-down collars were out. "You are perfectly correct in still wearing them," I said. As far as new Kiton button-down collar shirts at Saks that season, in fact, no, I checked, there wouldn't be any. And then I told him: "It's actually your fault that Saks didn't buy any."
Well, sort of. He was obviously surprised by my accusation, but curious, so I explained this bit of inner workings. It sounds obvious but so many people miss this very important idea: retail is a business that offers a service, not a service organization that vainly hopes to turn a profit. They buy more of what sells more. Stores, especially larger ones, have incredible systems set up to label all colors, patterns, and styles by codes so at the end of the season they can very accurately report that check shirts, or perhaps "fancies," made up only 11% of their regular-price selling, stripes 38%, and solids 51%. In the short term, they will stick to what works. In this situation, don't expect many check shirts on the floor next season.
An important distinction should be made at this point: true Fashion companies, those that hold runway shows and employ teams of designers and convincingly release a "collection" every season, will not offer every combination of fabric/color/style to the stores, because they don't want their message, if you can call it that, to be diluted.
But the vast majority of clothing sold at men's stores, expensive or not, is not Fashion. It is from a manufacturer with one or two patternmakers or designers on staff. In no order, these are companies like Hickey Freeman, Oxxford, Zegna, Canali, Corneliani, Brioni, Lorenzini, Kiton, Robert Talbott, Hamilton, Charvet, Burberry and within limits, Ralph Lauren. They are usually willing to customize the clothing to however the store wants it, allowing the buyers to choose from a standard menu of options. On shirts this includes collar, cuff, and pocket details, perhaps more. On jackets and suits, choose single breasted or double, body fit, lapels, shoulder style, pocket style, and vent details. And so on.
To make these decisions well, buyers must combine solid sales history statistics (what you bought last season at regular price) with the addition of their instinct or gut feeling, or the directive of the manager in charge of merchandise. Some stores rely so heavily on the computer to tell them what to buy and so little on their own taste that the clothes in the stores are dull, with nothing different to excite us. A few others take the opposite approach, using mostly gut and only a smattering of statistics. These stores are exciting to shop in, but business may be riskier. Going by their selection and presentation of merchandise, I'd say in the latter category are Louis Boston, Wilkes Bashford, and even George Greene in Chicago. All three are nimble, and all three have excellent taste, if different. They know their customers well and they work very hard to keep their merchandise distinctive.
So if you love something, if you really love something, buy it in spades, and tell your friends to do the same. Tab collars could be back in no time if you really make your dollars heard!
"Voting with your dollars, part 2" will be about the types of companies and manufacturing you support with your purchases, and will follow in a few weeks.
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Thursday, September 20, 2007
for a rainy day
Hungry, horny, or rainy: when any of these adjectives are upon you, your mind can't focus on much else. Food and restaurants that were never before appealing are suddenly desirable. People who were never quite so attractive are suddenly sexy. And a rainy day? Makes me wish I had purchased those waterproof boots, the long canvas raincoat, even the funny-looking collapsible hat. Preparation makes certain situations a pleasure; lack of it makes you wonder what you were thinking. Yet on a sunny day, who can blame you for not thinking about umbrellas? (Of course, I can.)
Unlike those articles that appear from time to time in a high-end magazine like Cigar Aficionado or Robb Report, I will not give you a history of the umbrella. Frankly, I don't care which noble British firm (or who knows? French firm?) first made them. Or what Winston Churchill nicknamed his. Or where Fred Astaire had his delivered by the dozen.
Those not really concerned with sturdy, quality things, made the Way They Have Been Made, can sign off now--from here on it's all crazy talk to you. It's the kind of talk that makes guys nonchalantly showy when referring to the flat six in their car, or spending more for a television with progressive scanning. But when referring to men's clothing or accessories, this talk surely announces the speaker as a fop or a fag. Well my shaft is hickory! That's right, solid hickory. And I chose it over cherry, walnut, and malacca. I can't tell anyone about it in any serious way, ("oh, this old thing?") but I love it, I do.
The few of you not turned off by this talk yet, gather close, and I will say what I set out to say: treat yourself to a good umbrella. Hang a little tag or print a little label for the inside so when you leave it in a coat room the honest management can return it. (Consider it insurance.) Then enjoy this umbrella. You will pray for rainy days so you can use it. With a broken collapsible umbrella, the canopy loose of the twisted frame, you are a scurrier, panicked by the rain! With a functional, sturdy umbrella you can walk down the street a bit more slowly, with a longer gait, even a smile. It's all in the spirit of theMaterialist: a detail sought not for its flashiness but for the small pleasure you might find in it. Enjoy the rainy days.
The cost of a sturdy umbrella made in England or Italy is considerable. And perhaps ridiculous. (But it hasn't stopped me: I have three.) They start at about $150 for the Brigg doorman umbrellas with metal shafts, then to $200 or so for the Maglia Francesca, who make many of the private label umbrellas for Paul Stuart, Barneys, Bergdorf Goodman, and a few others, and then easily $400 for the best and solid wooden ones by Brigg and a few other English makers. The costs come from the price of labor in a developed Western country, the materials, the beautiful fabrics available, and the less mechanized production. Your promotional-gift golf umbrella may be sturdy, I'll give you that. But beautiful? Worth keeping for a long time? Hmmm. The Brigg will still be mine in 15 years, and it will have that patina of ownership: dings in the wooden handle, worn down spots, and maybe a patch or two. I hardly even want the new umbrella, I want to have had it for decades. (See above, "oh, this old thing?")
And the best part of having one? Crazies like me will do a double take on the street: we will spot the distinctive shape of your canopy from a city block away, then carefully watch as you approach. We will interrupt you and your Blackberry and ask you for your photograph for a column we are writing, yes, we will!
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Thursday, September 13, 2007
the marginal differences, now 75% off
 A hang-tag from a Banana Republic blazer. See how it embodies the trademarks of impeccable tailoring?--but that doesn't mean it's actually impeccably tailored! Very clever wording.
One of my favorite obsessive-compulsive tendencies has been thrown into a tizzy over the past year or two. It used to be so revealing. I'd be able to tell who made your shirt, or at the very least to what quality level it was made, with a quick glance at the buttonholes. With one glance at your sleeve cuffs, I could also tell the ages of your children and the name of your psychologist. The cut of your suit jacket could have been done by anyone, but the marginal differences in details told me it's Oxxford! Or those sleeve buttonholes, they told me your checking account balance, and it was like seeing straight through to your soul.
But these days I'm reading everyone wrong. Now manufacturers from the really best ones to the merely mediocre ones know about the right details and have the machinery to make them. For example, can you believe that for a few seconds last week I actually thought my friend Max had outdone himself (once again!) and was wearing an expensive sport shirt by a small producer in Italy, when in fact it was a J. CREW SHIRT that I had watched him purchase--recommended he purchase!--only three weeks prior? I know, it's awful. But there it was, with a subtly colorful stripe, single-needle side seams, honest-to-God gussets, and buttons that looked like they cost a full Euro or two, wholesale. And it fit him well, that's the worst part. Made in the People's Republic of China, it was, retail price something like 70 bucks. A shirt with those tell-all details used to cost at bare minimum $150 just a few years ago. What happened?
It seems to me that interest in men's clothing has reached a point that manufacturers are racing to include details previously only seen at the highest end of quality. That's good, of course, because it means more of us get to enjoy the little details at more reasonable prices, even if we don't really know why they're there. But you knew there was a rub: these are details that used to indicate something more, something about how the garment was made or the amount of time or fabric that it consumed. They used to indicate incredibly skilled hands at work. Now they indicate how clever the manufacturer is: no matter how much you learn about the signs of quality, the makers will be a step ahead, ready with their machines to deliver the appearance of quality for nowhere near the price of the genuine article.
I should back up. The details I'm talking about were there because of tradition, because that's "the way we have always done it" and because it took longer to do them that way, because it made a more durable, longer-lasting product, and because it was indicative of time and money put into it.
On garments like suits and jackets, this is about pick-stitched lapels, which showed that someone had finished the edge of the lapels with a hand-sewn thread, now easily done by machine; saddle-stitched linings, which showed that the lining of your jacket was sewn in by hand; hand-sewn buttonholes, which would only appear on the most meticulously crafted garments as an outward expression of the meticulous attention to the inside, now appearing on some largely machine-made suits; French facing on the insides of jackets, showing more fabric consumption and a more difficult manufacturing process. (See photo, below, there's a poorly matched seam which indicates it's not one piece of fabric wrapped around, but another piece, likely a scrap, added on.) It's about functional sleeve buttonholes, which always indicated a custom jacket, now seen on off-the-rack jackets, making the sleeves unalterable: this one's just foolish! Your sleeves may be 2 inches too long, but look!--functional sleeve buttonholes!
On shirts it's about single-needle shirt seams, which made a stronger seam and took more attention and time; split yokes as a holdover from custom makers who adjusted the back of the shirt for the varying slope of your shoulders; gussets at the bottom of the shirt, where the front panel joins the back panel, for strength and a little showing off of a time-consuming detail.
This will continue: the truly rich will find more and more uninvited guests to their secret clubs of custom shirts with split yokes and bespoke jackets with functional sleeve buttonholes. How will they be able to tell the members from the poseurs? You might think they'll have to invent new details with which to wink knowingly at one another. But alas, they will know. They will always know. The hand-made, the quality-made, it always shines in a way, almost imperceptibly, to tell you of its provenance. The game has gotten trickier, for sure, but those playing by the original rules will always come out on top.
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Thursday, September 6, 2007
shop-in-shops
 A colorful and fascinating Joseph Abboud shop-in-shop in its natural habitat: Bloomingdale's.
If you have been in a department store in the past twenty years you have certainly been in a "shop," one of those areas of a selling floor segmented by manufacturer or designer to give you the complete feel of the brand. The first one I ever remember being in was, of course, a Polo by Ralph Lauren shop, (pronounced lau-REN then, because he was after all an international designer) at my local Midwestern Younkers. The brass fixtures and dark wood shelves contrasted so dramatically from the cheap feel of the surrounding store that I was certain this section held treasures. The designated salesperson--with their own cash register even!--seemed in their aloofness to give an even higher or at least snootier level of service to accompany those cable-knit sweaters, polos, and pony-stamped wallets. Ahhh, luxury!
Today a few larger stores like Bloomingdale's are almost completely shop-i-fied, and all department stores have at least a few brand shops within. Ralph still leads the pack in quantity of shops and superior execution of a theme, while more and more up-and-coming brands are trying it to increase their brand exposure this way. Why? Some ideas:
First, it gives control to the clothing designer/manufacturer, who may feel that retailers are not displaying his product according to the image of his company. Since most manufacturers today are Brands first and manufacturers second, this is the best way (aside from opening your own retail store and having a $10 million advertising budget) to develop your image.
It's also an opportunity for the retailer to share or completely unload costs of building an interior space with fixtures, tables, signs, and expensive rugs, and sometimes even share (or completely unload) the cost of the sales staff's salaries and commissions. In a few extreme cases it is becoming retailer-as-selective-landlord instead of retailer-as-merchant.
That's nice, you say, but what difference does it make?
It gives a feel to the shopper that you're at an official and serious outlet of the brand, perhaps giving you increased confidence in buying there.
Perhaps even more importantly, a salesperson whose paycheck or bonus comes partially from the vendor may be more specifically trained on that product. You might find that the guy employed in the Brioni shop, for example, knows the product well, knows some people at the U.S. office, and maybe has been to the factory. This is good if you like Brioni, but don't expect unbiased help with other makers.
It sometimes means fewer, or zero, sales. With this new, polished image of the shop, the retailer might suggest that the vendor take merchandise back at the end of the season instead of putting it on sale. This improves statistics for the retailer, but the vendor has to figure out what to do with all this leftover stuff.
Though what I most bemoan is that it also reduces the stylistic influence of the retailer, because they combine labels only in select displays instead of throughout the store. It's harder and harder to find clothes displayed in stores the way you actually wear your clothes; I don't know of any man who dresses head-to-toe in any one designer (unless, like some celebrities, he's contractually obligated to). These mono-label displays don't inspire me. Do they inspire you?
Is it the experience or the product that excites you? Ah-ha! Naive, perhaps, to think they are separate components in modern retailing. Enjoy the experience and environment they designed for you, and don't check to see if the Ralph Lauren walnut shelving is solid or veneer. Just remember that the clothing you took home with you will last a lot longer than the experience: be sure you love it.
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