Something occurred to me the other day, and although it's not a really big idea, I thought it was significant enough to merit its own post:

The only way to learn how to dress well is to expose yourself to people who know how to dress well.

It occurred to me via the parallel example of writing. I have a friend who's doing his Ph.D. who works as a TA, grading first-year papers. Whenever we talk about it, he's always flabbergasted by the number of students who have managed to reach the university level who are actually terrible writers. Improper sentence structure and punctuation, words used in incorrect contexts... we always ask ourselves how these students could get so far with such a seemingly tenuous grasp of the English language.

Now, I'm a philosophy major who went to law school; my wife is an English and media studies double major who also has a master's in library science. Both of us grew up as voracious readers. My mom would look through the Chinaberry catalogue every summer, compiling a list of books I should get out from the library and read over my vacation. The thing is, I liked reading. I used to read at recess, even though I got teased about it; I used to read in the car, even though it made me carsick. My wife would read in the stands at her younger brother's hockey games.

But here's the point: all that reading showed us what good writing looked like. It showed us how a sentence was supposed to sound; it showed us new words used in their proper context; it showed us how to use semicolons and dashes. So in our own writing, we'd be able to look at something we'd written and think, "Hmm... that doesn't sound right." People who have never been exposed to the correct way of doing things have no way to tell when they're doing something wrong. It's the same with learning a language, and it's the same with style, too.

I never had any style role models when I was growing up. The way my parents taught me to dress was, I regret to say, unfashionable. It wasn't until late in my undergraduate years of university that I really began to be conscious that there was a correct way to do clothes, and began to read magazines and websites and books about clothes. By looking to others who knew what they were doing, I slowly learned how to put clothes together, how they should fit, and just fundamentally what looked right and what didn't.

So, if you're wondering how you can get started, pick up a copy of GQ once in a while (I prefer it to Esquire). Look at celebrities like Brad Pitt and George Clooney and Daniel Craig, even Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart. When you watch movies and TV shows, pay closer attention to what the characters are wearing. The more you see, the more you learn, and the better your judgment becomes to choose clothes that work for you.

I’ve often been known to overdress. I went to a party a couple of weeks ago, and one of the hosts made fun of me for wearing a cardigan and a button-down shirt to such a casual event. He was wearing a pair of old jeans and a Carhartt T-shirt. Evidently, here was a guy who didn’t give much thought to the meaning of his clothes—even though, to the interested listener, they had plenty to say. That’s the thing about clothes: they speak for you, even if you're not paying attention. (To my mind, the way of dressing that carries the least expressive information about a person is the one that is most predicated on quantitative rather than qualitative concerns: buying the cheapest, most practical, most durable clothing one can find at mass-market or discount retailers, and wearing everything until it falls apart, regardless of changes in fashion.) But his comment got me thinking about why I wore what I wore to that party, and just generally about why I dress the way that I do. And I realized that it was, in part, a response to the way that other people dress.

As I’ve mentioned before, I believe that when people put effort into their appearance, it demonstrates respect for the people around them. But some people put effort into cultivating an appearance that is calculated to shock or affront others. Then they’re sending a different message altogether. The message that I personally get is, “Not only do I not care what you think of me, but I’ve taken the trouble to make sure you can tell that I don’t. In fact, I reject you, your values, and everything you stand for.” In other words, if no effort is a shrug, this kind of effort is a middle finger. I’m actually insulted by it.

Now, much as I’m socially liberal and unconventional in some ways, in other ways, I’m quite conservative. One of those ways is in matters of etiquette and protocol. I don’t value tradition for tradition’s sake, but in a lot of cases, I’ve made as reasoned and objective an evaluation as I can, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the traditional way is the preferable way—primarily because, at least as far as social conduct is concerned, the traditional way is the one that shows the most respect for other people and is most likely to preserve civility and courtesy in the public sphere.

So this is a significant part of why I dress the way I do: as a reaction against counterculture. Just look at me: I’m an upper-middle-class heterosexual white male, university-educated, a lawyer. I might be too young to be “The Man,” but I probably qualify as “The Man: The Next Generation.” And when I see people dressing in a way that I interpret as a rejection of tradition, I take it as a rejection of the values of civility and courtesy in general. So I dress conservatively, neatly, “properly,” in order to communicate my rejection of their rebellion. They wear their pants halfway down their ass? I put on a tie. They get another tattoo? I get another pair of penny loafers. They rip their jeans? I press my khakis. Each salvo of theirs provokes a retaliatory volley of my own, a war of values fought vicariously through personal appearance. On the one side, order; on the other, chaos.

By this time, some of you might be thinking that I’m a hypocrite. Isn’t it one of the central premises of this blog that clothing ought to be used as a mode of self-expression? Doesn’t that preclude judging people’s clothing choices, and saying that one way of dressing is “better” than another? Why are different styles spoken of as being opposed to one another? Shouldn’t they be allowed to coexist?

But what I’m talking about here is how I conceive of my identity as being bound up with certain social mores, and how I perceive others’ identities (as expressed through their clothing) as being in opposition to (and therefore threatening towards) those mores—and by extension, my own identity. In other words, I’m not saying that these people shouldn’t be free to communicate through what they wear; I just disagree with what they’re saying. The right to express is not debatable, but the merit of the content of that expression certainly is.

Yes, I am making a judgment. Do you disagree? Leave a comment, and let the debate begin.

A collaboration between Street Etiquette and Unabashedly Prep has been making waves in the style blogosphere over the past week. The project, entitled "The Black Ivy," is a set of photos depicting several  preppy black students going about their daily lives around the campus of the City College of New York. The slideshow concludes with a different series of photos, shot by Alfred Eisenstaedt at Howard University (one of America's historic black colleges) in 1946. Rather than any racial implications of either photoset, their juxtaposition got me thinking about the interrelationship between style and fashion, and particularly how fashion trends tend to date clothes.

Let's take a look first at these two photos from 1946. You'll notice many ways in which the suits of that era differ from the suits of today: higher-waisted trousers with wider legs, plus longer jackets that had wider lapels, longer sleeves, and higher button placements. And of course, hats were fairly common for everyday wear in 1946, whereas now they're exclusively reserved for the realm of fashion statement.

What we're seeing here is representative of the very particular way that men's fashion tends to change over time. That is to say: Men's fashion is a series of deviations away from one universal reference point. This reference point (or, for the Aristotelians in the room, the "Golden Mean") is a particular point in time, usually around the origination of the garment in question, which sets the standard for all subsequent iterations of that garment. In the case of suits, the reference point is the classic British/Savile Row cut of the 1930s (see photo at right). And the reason why I call it the "Golden Mean" is that the reference point is usually perfectly in balance with the proportions of its wearer, because (in the realm of suiting at least) the garment would have originally been custom-made to fit its particular wearer's body. No aspect of the garment is exaggerated or out of proportion; everything is perfectly suited to the particular individual. The width of the trouser leg is in proportion to the wearer's shoe size; the width of the lapel is in proportion to the breadth of the wearer's shoulders; the placement of the jacket's buttons and the height of the waist of the trousers are in proportion to the wearer's overall height. And, when you have a suit that conforms to the Golden Mean, it becomes nearly impossible to date. It is timeless. That's the reason why the evil EPA agent in Ghostbusters would still look perfectly well-dressed if he brought his suit from 1984 to today: because it is, essentially, outside of fashion.

Bearing that in mind, let's now consider one of the modern-day Black Ivy photos.

 

What we see here is a deviation in the opposite direction from the 1946 photos. In 1946, it was all about more and bigger: longer jackets, wider lapels, wider pant legs, longer hems. In 2010 (and for pretty much the last decade), it's all about less and smaller: shorter jackets, narrower lapels, skinnier pant legs, shorter hems. Note the fellow in the middle, wearing the light grey sport jacket with jeans: the width of his pant leg is ludicrously narrow relative to his shoe size. The chap with the tan striped sport coat? It's so short that it's barely covering his ass. Also note the two guys with their skinny pant legs cuffed or rolled a few inches above their shoes. Sure, this looks spiffy now, because it's 100% on-trend in the minds of those who follow fashion. But ten or twenty or sixty years down the road, these sticklike pants will look just as ridiculous in retrospect as those tentlike '40s pants do to us now.

Contrast those outfits with the one at left. Admittedly, the shawl-collar cardigan with toggle closure is a bit of a trendy style. But it references classics from the past history of menswear; shawl collars and toggle closures are both authentic details, though not necessarily on the same garment. And more importantly, the fit of what he's wearing is relatively timeless. The khakis are neither tight nor loose, long nor short, skinny nor wide; they're perfectly proportionate in every way. Likewise, the fit of the sweater is close, but not tight. In short, everything balances. No one aspect of the ensemble stands out as being exaggerated in any direction.

The lesson here: When you're putting together an outfit, avoid trendy extremes to avoid dating yourself. Don't go for the jacket with the 1.5-inch lapels or the pants with the 7-inch leg opening. Think first and foremost about what suits you: your body, your personality. Wearing things just because they're fashionable (hello, square-toed loafers and multicolor-striped shirts) is the surest way to look back ten years from now and regret every photo ever taken of you. Instead, dress to suit yourself. That way, you'll avoid becoming a fashion victim, and instead grow further towards your own personal style.