Notes on cloth, construction, occasion, and the art of dressing well.
Cloth weight is the quiet variable that determines whether a suit is comfortable or merely worn. A man who wears a heavy worsted to a July wedding will be uncomfortable. A man who wears a tropical wool to a January funeral will be cold. The cloth is correct or it is not, and weight is the largest factor.
A wedding suit, for the man at the center of a wedding, is the most photographed garment of his life. It is also the garment that has to perform across more registers in a single day than any other suit he will own. It must look correct in stillness during the ceremony, in motion during the first dance, in proximity at every embrace, in detail during every photograph from sunrise to last call. It must be cool enough to survive a summer afternoon and warm enough to survive a winter chapel. It must reflect the formality of the occasion without overwhelming it. It must, above all, photograph well.
A tape measure can tell you a man's chest is forty-two inches. It cannot tell you whether his right shoulder sits a quarter-inch lower than his left, whether his neck angles slightly forward, whether he carries a fullness in the upper back that is not present in the lower, whether his weight rests on the balls of his feet or his heels.
The terms get used interchangeably. They should not be.
This month, we’re thinking about the difference between a suit that fits and one that belongs to you. Notes on cloth, construction, occasion, and the quiet details that make it personal.
— ENZO
A tuxedo is, in some ways, the easiest garment in a man's wardrobe. The rules are clear. The choices are few. The cloth is established. The cut is traditional. A man who walks into an evening in a properly built tuxedo, properly worn, will look correct without having to think about it.
There are three lapels in classical menswear, and each one tells the wearer a slightly different thing about itself. The lapel is the most visible structural element of a jacket — it is the part the eye returns to, the part that frames the chest, the part that catches a buttonhole and a pocket square. To choose a lapel without knowing what it is asking for is to leave the most expressive decision in tailoring to chance.
An A-list actor walked into a workshop in Florence and stayed eight months. He arrived at eight in the morning. He left when the day’s work was finished. There was no role he had been preparing for. There was no film. There was only the shoe, and the man who knew how to make it.
