The Suit
Joel B. Levine MD
Whether it is the old movies or just a newspaper from decades ago, one thing is obvious. Men dressed well. Suits, ties, jackets, glossy shoes and felt hats, all were worn. Men looked serious, men looked defined and Bogey looked spectacular.
The great men’s clothing stores are gone. There was even a special word for it, haberdasher, from the British tradition. When a man went to buy a suit, it was ritual, spectacle and affirmation. It was a bit more involved than tackling the auto-checkout at Wal-Mart.
My father went to Kolmer-Marcus, a shrine at Broadway and 37th Street. On the street level, it was the glory of silk for men. Hard to imagine but a man, joined by a coterie of other elegant men, would feel, crush, rub, and, finally, try on a shirt. If you have never seen a Brioni, you just do not know what a shirt can be. Like the Beau’s of the 18th century, it was woven grace. You looked completed, like a finished painting from a master.
And the ties, oh my. A tie, if ever worn today, shows where the mustard declares its independence. Then, a tie was just a plume short of Cyrano. The alchemy of shirt and tie was an integral part of the lost art of simply getting dressed.
Shoes deserve a chapter of their own with nary a Nike in sight. Born of human hand and destined to be maintained the same way. Imagine bringing your Asics to a cobbler. For some reading this, I am sure that word is an image born. Vivid and yearning was the sound of wheels on the sole, the smell of warm leather. Who needs weed when you have the opiate of your shoes?
By this time, it was early afternoon and my father and I moved to the top of the staircase to the floor below. The ritual was in the pause. Linger just long enough for Mr. Kolmer or Mr. Marcus to see you. See you and welcome you with a bottle of Scotch in hand. Yes, you were there for a suit but buying it was the ballet. It was memories and in- seams, laughter and chalk lines. The suit emerged amidst the sweetness of men in full.
Men’s clothing is a current misnomer, more like rags worn before they fully appreciate their fate. We are today a bit overdressed in a wardrobe of toxic masculinity. To act well as a man you have to feel like a man. Men are Rubik’s cubes of pride, intention and memories of small wounds or successes. They have few places to pal around with the fellow gorillas. Seeing yourself in a good suit amidst the nods of other men is a man’s silent twerk.
Masculinity was a cultural bond and varied by culture. For me, it was my dad and Mr. Marcus. For other men, it was the barbershop, the bowling alley, and the bocce court. All are the same and no toxicity to be found unless the whiskey had gone bad.
