NEW YORK — Politicians like to romanticize the idea of a “real” America, where nuclear families live in picturesque small towns, drive John Deere tractors to plow legacy farms, heave bales of hay with pitchforks and sit down to a dinner of homemade meatloaf and apple pie. Washington insists on seeing patriotism and authenticity as defined by back-breaking labor and the consumption of saturated fat.
Fashion holds a similar point of view. Menswear designers aren’t necessarily encouraging flag-waving and marching with work pants and wilderness parkas — but fashion regularly peddles those things as emblematic of a kind of American authenticity and sincerity. There is truth in that ideal. But it isn’t the whole truth. Not anymore.
There is a real beauty in the workwear-inspired styles from N. Hoolywood, where designer Daisuke Obana collaborated with Timberland Pro. This collection within a collection was modeled by men found working at a construction site. And the broader collection, with its bold colors and strong lines, exuded a rugged urbanity that was elevated by the designer’s eye for proportions.
But N. Hoolywood was something of an exception. All too often, fashion goes overboard. It doesn’t just aim for rugged, it goes full-on survivalist. It isn’t enough to create a luxurious parka; designers create clothes that look as if they are to be worn by men who must march across a frozen landscape in search of a moose to slaughter in order to survive the winter famine.
Who are these men of the mountains that fashion is aiming to dress? Or, more accurately, why would the men of urban America — designer-label-wearing America with Uber at their beck and call — want to dress like they commute by dog sled?
Fashion designers can’t quite shake the fantasy of rugged individualism. The man who needs a pair of Toughskin jeans for his 9-to-5 is not buying his work clothes from N. Hoolywood or Engineered for Motion or any other up-and-coming fashion label. He probably can’t afford to. And those who can probably spend 16-hour days at a computer, not splitting logs.
Fashion is aiming to dress men for lives they don’t lead, which is why designers such as Raf Simons and Tom Ford — and to some degree Ingo Wilts of Boss — stand out. They aim to romanticize, celebrate and exploit the man of 2018: an urban-dweller full of existential angst, a creative soul weighed down by privilege and despair, a working man whose hands are as soft as a baby’s bottom.
Ford is a masterful tailor who understands how to balance lean, clipped proportions with peacock colors and extravagant sheen. A pale pink shiny suit, you say? Yes, says Mr. Ford. It is the perfect shade of pink, cut with just the right amount of sparkle and a silhouette that is mathematicaly precise.
Simons was inspired by a 1981 film, “Christiane F.,” that he saw as a Belgian high school kid. The movie, set in 1970s Berlin, looks at drug addiction through the eyes of two anti-heroes. Simons mined the film, and other works of fiction, to explore the preponderance of drugs — both illicit and prescription — in our culture. He set his runway show against the backdrop of a bacchanal. His catwalk was essentially a long, winding table edged with open wine bottles.
His models, in richly-colored oversized pea coats and car coats, deconstructed sweaters, skinny trousers with knee pads emblazoned with “Drugs” or “LSD,” wound their way around the catwalk, again and again. They made multiple passes, crossing in front of and then behind each other as they moved with aimless intent.
And Boss, the menswear behemoth famous for suits, injected athleticism and ease into its tailoring. Jackets were roomier and with large patch pockets. Matching trousers were cut more like track pants than dress pants. Blazers were paired with sweaters instead of shirts and ties. And baseball jerseys, albeit in luxurious suede, were tucked under sweeping overcoats. This is business casual for 2018. It’s a way of dressing that celebrates success with a style somewhere between stuffy and sloppy.
