Power Dressing – Vestoj

The Suit

Thomas Page McBee — Mon, 24 Apr 2017 17:41:15 +0000

WHAT IS A WORSE insult for the American man than being called a ‘suit’?

The etymology of the word is itself a sad-sack Mad Men meme: sute, from 1300, both ‘a band of followers’ and a ‘set of matching garments;’ suite and sieute, from Old French, ‘assembly; act of following;’ evolving to suit, which means to ‘be agreeable or convenient,’ from 1570 (to be ‘unsuited,’ in contrast, is to be ‘unfit’).

A suit is a tortured Don Draper in New York greys, not yet aware of the liberated fruit the bohemians in Los Angeles have found, tie knotted to brutal perfection. Just as with our bafflingly stubborn sartorial romance with the great American cautionary tale The Great Gatsby, Mad Men’s depressing suits became a defining aesthetic of the downtrodden near-Depression of the late-2000s. It is as if Americans, in flaunting our willful misunderstanding of the failure of the American Dream, believe we can somehow always get it back.

A suit is a man defined by work, which is to say by the rituals attached to the acquisition of things so as to attain more things: he is a rule-follower and the worst kind of boss; primed for a Cheever-like midlife crisis, tied to the capitalist ritual of adulthood like he is to the commuter train schedule or the e-mail alerts on his phone. Sometimes, a suit doesn’t even care if the suit fits. That’s the saddest kind of suit of all. And yet!

A suit isn’t merely a uniform, traditionally made of one fabric. It is, if one is a believer in the power of style, a sly opportunity to play with notions of passing while also signaling dissent.

Witness: The gentleman my girlfriend and I saw sitting on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan one Sunday this summer. I clocked him as at least sixty-five, and possessing the cool confidence and flamboyance of an Italian on holiday. He wore a fitted, elegantly deconstructed jacket and matching trousers in a light grey that matched his neatly groomed salt-and-pepper beard; a crisp, unbuttoned white shirt; Persol sunglasses; and beat-up white high-top Vans. His style was a kind of riff: a love letter and a middle finger to a bygone masculinity.

Because what is more symbolic of the performance of being a man than a suit? Most rites of passage still require one. The suit I wore to my mother’s memorial service was a light grey Ludlow from J. Crew, the same suit I’d worn to my brother’s wedding a few months earlier. It was the first one I ever bought off-the-rack, in a pinch back when I lived in Boston and did a brief contract gig writing copy about regional parks for the state website, a time I mostly remember as an endless search for adjectives.

I began injecting testosterone at thirty. When I slipped on the jacket in front of the mall mirror at thirty-two, I beamed. Tattooed, with a little hard-won stubble, I could see my contrasts cleanly, my aesthetics an armour telegraphing a history beyond words. A prison for some men was, for me, a church: the rare and precise glory of an integrated self.

All summer, I experimented with being a suit. (I admit that my tolerance for uniforms may be higher than most. I once spent four months wearing only black T-shirts, an exercise that exhausted and enlivened me.) It was a perfect storm: my boss, an actual Suit, was a bad-breathed tyrant who seemed to have modeled himself off the villain in Office Space. He slumped by regularly to check my work, his black Brooks Brothers jacket boxy and always a little greasy, as if he used it as a napkin in a pinch. The cubicles required us to sit with our backs-out, like a bureaucratic panopticon, and my co-workers, many of them near-retirement, spent most of their days finding creative ways to torture The Suit, who reminded us often that he came from IBM. It was into this concrete fortress of bad vibes that I’d arrive on Mondays with a steaming cup of Dunkin’ Donuts. I was early in my transition and had a glow of boyishness I lost when I grew a beard, but it was hard to wear the suit with the kind of authority that I’ve since learned makes a suit more than a uniform, but a statement.

But I learned to walk differently that summer. I went to a barbershop in Back Bay every two weeks, and discovered the small joy of a pocket square, and the many nuances of a tie. When I moved to New York that autumn, I hung up my suit for a string of jobs in digital media, where a new uniform had cropped up, a casual response to the buttoned-up worlds most journalists have left behind. In the age of the Zuckerberg hoodie, a suit at work now feels more truly reserved for Suits, those among us still working for companies without flex-time and paternity leave and ping-pong tables in the lobby.

Recently, I showed up to work in a bright blue summer suit with a white shirt, no tie, and new brown brogues. I was attending a mayoral gala that night, and didn’t have time to go home and change. The effect was tremendous: co-workers kindly complimented me, but also treated me differently, like an elegant artefact, an object of celebration, a mysterious animal deserving of a gentle respect. My hand tattoos popped beneath the cuffs of the jacket: a lion on my right hand, a lamb on my left. I felt handsome, and like a ghost of myself, and like myself.

I’d bought this latest suit the same weekend this summer that I saw that Italian guy on the cathedral steps. As I took the train to meet my girlfriend, I remembered her pointing to him, and the sense of recognition that passed through me as I glanced his way.

‘That’s you in thirty years,’ she said, and I grinned. I’d never felt more seen.

Thomas Page McBee was born in North Carolina and, according to his birth certificate, became a man at age thirty-one. His memoir Man Alive: A True Story of Violence, Forgiveness and Becoming A Man was published in 2014, and he’s now working on his second book, Amateur.

Karen Knorr is known for her architectural scenography, a style she codified in the 1980s: typically she creates fictionalised spaces to reflect on Western cultural traditions. In Gentlemen, a book published by Stanley/Barker in collaboration with Eric Franck Fine Art and from where these images are taken, she investigated the values of the London upper class by juxtaposing images of an exclusive 1980s gentlemen’s club with text from parliament speeches and news from the same era.

This article was originally published in Vestoj’s latest issue ‘On Masculinities,’ available on www.vestoj.com and in select bookstores now.

What Does Power Look Like to You? Part One

Anna Akbari — Tue, 20 May 2014 06:49:40 +0000

WHAT DOES POWER LOOK like? Who embodies it and how? These are a few of the questions posed in a series of interviews with individuals who each hold positions of relative power within their particular industry. What follows is neither an exhaustive look at powerful aesthetics, or an industry point of view, but rather a reflection on the breadth and colourful diversity with which power, authority and competence are visually communicated and embodied. As individuals we formulate an internal algorithm that takes into account context, body type, professional position, audience, and both written and unwritten rules. This formula is nuanced and elusive, demanding perpetual editing and real-time improvisation to successfully navigate the semiotics of self-presentation. Perhaps unsurprisingly, many people are uncomfortable talking about power, particularly in relation to their own personal appearance. Dealing with these matters is not a simple feat – but if it were easy, it wouldn’t be so powerful.

We presented the first instalment of this series in Vestoj‘s issue ‘On Fashion and Power’, published in October 2013. This, the second of six similar Q&As which will be published here throughout the following weeks, is a discussion about sartorial power with Michael Cruz, former student body president of Stanford University (2011–2012), California.

***

Anna: What does power look like to you?

Michael: When I think of power, I think in two directions: One is the idea of having confidence. The other is more political or subtle, where they might not be exuding confidence, but it sits beneath the surface. There are a lot of ways to be a leader that can be reflected in people’s personalities. Body language and confidence can signify authority. This includes how their physicality is contextualised by the space – for instance, situating their body in the space they choose for a meeting, whether in a conference room, classroom, my office, etc. And the objects they choose to display in their office are also signals of power to me.

Anna: Is there anything in particular that signifies power when you see it?

Michael: Being a student body president is a very traditional position (though Stanford often feels like a very innovative and non-traditional environment). The way I see power is in terms of people owning their style, or having a consistent style. Like Steve Jobs, for instance – not necessarily an icon of mine, but a person who owns his own style. Mark Zuckerberg is another example. They are both people who use their clothing or image for the disruption of the traditional suit and tie.

Anna: What is your personal power uniform?

Michael: It’s what on the East Coast would be called ‘business-casual’, and on the West Coast would be called ‘business’ or ‘semi-professional’: dark dress shoes, tailored pants, and a coloured button-up with rolled-up sleeves and a starched collar. I’d usually wear this with a blazer in a corresponding colour.

Anna: What would be a disempowering look for you?

Michael: Something like sweat pants and a T-shirt. That’s what I wear to disengage. I think that’s generally true for my compatriots in that environment. There’s a difference between owning a style and looking stylish. People who are fashionable might look good in sweatpants, but regardless of that, it doesn’t look good in this setting.

Anna: Were there any visual indicators of a power hierarchy that would tip you off to authority figures, the administration, other students, etc?

Michael: Yes. The visual indicator I saw was not just a suit or tie, but their ability to appear at ease in whatever they were wearing. There was a mid-level manager who always wore business suits – a skirt suit. I outranked her, and most people I worked with outranked her, but she always wore it. I felt she was using her dress to give herself more power than she actually had.

Anna: Do you think it worked in her favour?

Michael: Certainly in some settings, but not with me and the people I was working with.

Anna: Was that because she didn’t appear comfortable in it, or because her actions/capabilities didn’t align with the visual?

Michael: I think there was a cognitive dissonance, where what she reported to give was not what she could actually give. The reverse is also true: There was another person who dressed nicely, and wasn’t in a skirt suit or anything, but in nice clothing – like what Oprah might wear when she’s on her couch doing an interview. Her position was lower than the mid-level managers, but because of her confidence, she conveyed much more actual authority.

Anna Akbari is a writer and sociologist. She teaches at the department of Media, Culture and Communication at New York University.

What Does Power Look Like to You? Part Two

Anna Akbari — Mon, 12 May 2014 23:22:25 +0000

CONTINUING ANNA AKBARI’S SERIES of conversations with individuals who each hold positions of relative power within their particular industry, the first instalment of which was published in Vestoj’s issue On Fashion and Power in October 2013, reveals the way we wear power within a workplace and position. What makes us look and feel powerful is an experience that is entirely specific and personal to an individual and their vocation, constructed in the subtle details and signifiers of dress – such as a retro iPhone, or vintage-style Warby Parker frames – that help to maintain propriety and confidence within the relevant industry. What follows in these Q&As, with Jason Evans, CEO of the IT company Stackpop, and the New York hotel and restaurant proprietor Jeff Pan, reveals the nuanced signifiers of power that are intrinsic to an individual’s work.

***

Jason Evans, Co-Founder and CEO of the New York-based IT company, Stackpop

Anna: What does power look like to you?

Jason: Power is the display of confidence when giving a pitch or talking about your company. It’s also about who wants to talk to you and who’s interested in what you’re saying. For instance, if the top Venture Capitalist at the party is waiting around to talk to you or spending more than five minutes with you, that’s a sign you’re doing something right. Engaging with and being seen with influential investors, customers and founders is powerful.

Anna: What’s your power uniform?

Jason: My good luck power uniform includes my Hugo Boss suede shoes, John Varvatos jeans (or black Paul Smith cords), a blazer, a retro iPhone (I never have the latest one). Shirt can vary – in the winter, usually a zip sweater. Mostly dark colours – blues and greens – and I like to mix in pink (it’s a little bit disarming). If it’s a business meeting, I opt to wear my glasses: thick, vintage-inspired tortoise Warby Parker frames.

Anna: In your industry/position, what is the most disempowering look or visual?

Jason: A Dell laptop. A Metro-PCS phone. A traditional Wall Street suit with a tie – it typically can make entrepreneurs and tech folk feel like they’re not in touch with them. Our generation of buyers and product makers doesn’t like to feel sold to like it’s the early 2000’s. A suit with no tie is fine – but save the ties for jeans. It’s about mixing casual with polish. Too casual isn’t necessarily disempowering, but you have to be really smart to pull it off (and it helps if you can code).

Anna: Describe the power hierarchy in your industry, using only visual indicators.

Jason: Venture Capitalists are generally business casual (except for Dave McClure who always wears T-shirts). It’s still a sign of respect to not be too casual if you’re going into a meeting with an investor or customer. I don’t mandate any certain look amongst my team – I hold myself to a different, higher standard. (If the younger developer guys are not dressed up, it can actually give them a little street cred.)

***

Jeff Pan, proprietor of Skytown restaurant/bar, Loftstel hostel and Matalino Labs, New York

Anna: What does power look like to you?

Jeff: Swagger and confidence equals power. You can always immediately spot the owner of a restaurant or bar – always busy, but never hurried; always overwhelmed, but never flustered.

Anna: What’s your power uniform?

Jeff: Unfortunately, you’ll be disappointed that I don’t fit a stereotype of a stylish entrepreneur packing a skinny tie. Instead, think of the male version of Liz Lemon from 30 Rock. I’m usually in flip-flops and a T-shirt since I’m in the office by myself 90% of the time.

Anna: In your industry/position, what is the most disempowering look or visual?

Jeff: A flip phone, paper notebook, or anything else that screams ‘disorganised’. We’re in an industry that requires you to stay on top of a thousand moving parts, and there’s a distinct line between the new-school restaurateurs (who are constantly innovating and experimenting) and the old-school restaurateurs (who are still doing things like blocking Amex). It’s hard to take the old-school guys seriously.

Anna: Describe the power hierarchy in your industry, using only visual indicators.

Jeff: One of the unique ways we run Skytown is by disrupting the typical service industry hierarchy. Most places have a very distinct class system: the entitled bartender at the top, the front-of-house staff in the middle, the invisible kitchen staff, and then the lowly busser/barbacks. It creates some uncomfortable dynamics, so we did away with it by rotating our staff. Our bartenders and barbacks will rotate throughout the week, so we never get some people feeling like they’re ‘better’ than another staffer. It creates a healthy relationship and gets everybody feeling like they’re part of a winning team. The beauty of the flat hierarchy is that it essentially removes all the visual indicators – you’ll never know if the person clearing your table is the bartender, a busser or the owner of a restaurant.

Anna Akbari is a writer and sociologist. She teaches at the department of Media, Culture and Communication at New York University.

Dressing for Success

Vestoj Editors — Mon, 16 Dec 2013 13:56:55 +0000

FEW FASHION ARCHETYPES MEASURE up as having the symbolic power that the ‘business suit’ has. The ‘little black dress’ perhaps, or the quintessential denim jeans, but neither of these come with the highly-charged connotations that the business suit confronts us with. The suit is both a symbol of power and professionalism in corporate culture, but also of monotony and complacency, which in turn hints at the potential for human frailty.

In his series ‘Executive Model’ Ron Jude photographed the corporate world of the American businessman, documenting the exclusivity of this culture. Photographed between 1992 and 1995, across various US cities, the series is part street photography, showing frames of the anonymous suit-clad backs of office workers, cropped so that the form of the suit dominates the frame. Flashes of sky and the looming office towers hover in the background of these cityscapes. In Jude’s photographs the suit bears down on us like a skyscraper, and we see both in the same realm, giving the suits the same weight and monumental presence as the glazed towers that surround them.

These images look at corporate culture from the outside, as a closed-off world with its own language and customs, inaccessible although very much within arm’s reach and omnipresent to those on the outside of it. The awkward details – such as the crumples of the suit – are intimately in focus but exclude the viewer. When interviewed, Jude describes the context for the work as such, ‘I was living pretty poorly and the world of money seemed out of reach. I had every advantage one could possibly have – I was an educated white guy living in America – and yet, as someone who was raised in a rural, working class environment, these guys who were driving the economy and reaping the rewards seemed utterly foreign to me.’¹ The corporate world is a clearly defined realm that does, as we see in Jude’s photographs, seem like a foreign culture to those on the exterior, but where economic and political decisions are made that presumably have a profound impact on the way we live.

The photographs also show the awkwardness and frailty of the bodies within the suits, defying the perfect model of the slick lines of the suit. In one image, the vent of the suited back flicks up awkwardly; in another the figure mysteriously carries a shoe. In the formal qualities of the business suit, human individuality emerges, for, as philosopher Roland Barthes puts it, ‘The language in the garment system is made: i) by the opposition of pieces, parts of garments and details, the variations which entail a change in meaning. ii) By rules which govern the association of the pieces among themselves… of individual ways of wearing, size of garment, degree of cleanliness or wear, personal quirks, free association of pieces, etc.’² So in deferring from the preserved, pressed and perfect business suit, the opposition of the archetype is revealed, when the suit is imperfect, there is an implication of weakness and of the individual body within.

What these photographs capture so strongly is the clearly defined corporate world; a culture that, certainly from the outside, is a foreign phenomenon. The suit embodies this exclusivity with sartorial formality, and Jude’s images focus intimately on the awkward detail to reveal the individual with this formal framework, despite the lack of recognisable human faces in the images.

Images excerpted from the series ‘Executive Model’ (1992-1995) by Ron Jude, the series appeared in the book Executive Model published by Libraryman Press, 2012.

http://ronjude.com/executive-model-1992-1995 ↩
http://books.google.com.au/books?id=jvpwygq9i3UC&printsec=frontcover&dq=roland+barthes+the+fashion+system&hl=en&sa=X&ei=7HmpUofFO4WllAW-84GgCQ&redir_esc=y#v=onepage&q=roland%20barthes%20the%20fashion%20system&f=false ↩