Ah, Yes… I Remember It Well

In 1976, the year of the Bicentennial, I did a huge job for Benton & Bowles, an advertising agency that was a regular client of mine, for storyboards, animatics and comps.

The money for this gig was fantastic, and paid in what at the time was a huge lump sum.

This enormous cash influx coincided with a consideration I’d been circling, about making a decision to literally change my appearance, my look, my presentation.

First, I cut my shoulder length hair, at a very expensive Midtown Manhattan salon that remained my haircutter until I moved west in October of 1985.

Then, a few days later, before I had a chance at a second thought, I walked across town from my apartment on East 26th Street to Barney’s, on 7th Avenue and 17th Street, then the mecca of menswear in New York City.

I was, to be very clear, a virgin in regard to anything clothing related other than blue jeans, chambray work shirts, and Frye boots.

I was directed to Men’s Furnishings, and delivered into the hands of a rail thin fellow, about my age, who wore his suit with an enviable comfort. Unlike me, he still had a huge head of hair, to his shoulders and beyond.

This guy took his work seriously, and he correctly identified me as a potentially regular customer, certainly once I told him my mission, and my budget. We spent hours, and I spent several thousand, creating a wardrobe that worked for my body, which in no way resembled that of this knowledgeable and very serious salesman.

By the end of the afternoon, I had a suit, two sportscoats, two pairs of complementary trousers, two pairs of shoes, a half dozen pairs of socks, a half dozen neckties, four dress shirts, and two pullover sweaters.

The shoes were Ferragamo slipons, not the softer shoes that would become popular a few years later, but firm. The neckties were Versace, bold, of middle width.

Everything else was from another designer, a name as unknown and new to me as all the rest, which this salesman strongly recommended as someone whose work would serve my body type.

He was right. The trousers, particularly in concert with the sportcoats, effectively concealed the more unfortunate issues I had and have with my silhouette, as did, of course, the suits.

The shirts were winter weight, miraculous cotton flannels, with two buttons at the throat, not one. I wore them for years, until that flannel had begun to look like theatrical scrim, nearly translucent.

The pullovers, charcoal gray and gold cowl collared, traveled west with me nearly a decade later, along with later purchased dress outfits from that designer, clothing which I ultimately abandoned as I embraced Californianess.

I haven’t owned a suit in decades. I’ve given away all my neckties. Living in a central coast beach town as I do, I have gone completely native, if not, on occasion, to the realm of outright hobo cosplay.

All that said, I will always be grateful to that wiry and, yes wily salesman, whose name has long fled my memory, and for his suggestion to me, at my tender age of twenty five, to embrace the masterful work and brilliant designs of Giorgio Armani.

Rest in peace, Maestro.