Let’s Take This Conversation Offline

Let’s Take This Conversation Offline - The New York Times

Posted: 11 Feb 2020 01:47 PM PST

It's getting to the point where when I walk past all the abandoned storefronts strafing New York City, I begin to imagine all the other things they could be used for. Impromptu raves or hardcore shows. Floor-to-ceiling floral displays. Short-run theaters for one or two-person plays. Housing for the unhoused.

The idea that they might someday again be stores is beginning to feel fanciful. There is perpetual tension between, on the one side, soaring rents and the increasingly clichéd and untrue notion of New York as a moneyed town and, on the other, the cold realities that living here, creating here and shopping here are less tenable than ever.

Forgive the mangled Jane Jacobs, but storefront shopping thrives when there is an active sense of civic engagement, and it is a crucial feeder of that energy. Without stores, you'll just stay home, scroll through memes, buy a toothbrush off Instagram, and lie about how happy you are that you don't get enough sunshine.

In this climate, any seedling attempting to break through the ashes of New York's retail apocalypse is welcome, especially in men's clothing, which is historically underserved even at its peak. And which, thanks to Supreme and its many direct and indirect imitators, has essentially been reframed as an online game in which winners win garments and also the right to profit off those garments by selling them to those who are bad at the game.

Still, it is now essentially imperative to figure out your value proposition online before attempting to express it in a physical space. Such is the case with 18 East and Adsum, newish men's wear brands making artful post-street-wear, which both have opened storefronts in recent months. Adsum is in a basement space in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, just across from the three-story titan that used to be the overextended emporium Gentry and now sits empty, a testament to the burst men's wear bubble; 18 East is in a former massage parlor in NoLIta.

Both brands frame their release cycles in terms of drops, after the Supreme model of frequent (or in these cases, semi-frequent) releases. Both emphasize sustainability and transparency. And both brands take structurally similar but aesthetically distinct approaches to infusing elegance into active clothing.

At Adsum, where the placard outside the store reads "For athletes and aesthetes," the clothes are mannered and concise, a range of well-executed basics with appealing twists. The striking work shirts, in colors that include bright magenta and chalky periwinkle, are made of Italian moleskin (and manufactured in India) and have contrasting hidden-snap chest pockets ($175). The cotton on the long-sleeve pocket T-shirts has the proper heft ($75).

Perhaps the best offering is the barn jacket, a sleeker version of what you may find at L.L. Bean or Eddie Bauer, and with less drape, but with a collar that retains its firmness ($112, down from $225). On the whole, the clothes are quiet problem solvers, designed to be unremarkable even when they're, sometimes, remarkable.

Of the two, 18 East has grander and more vivid ambitions. The brainchild of Antonio Ciongoli, who worked at Polo before heading up the Neapolitan casual line Eidos (a sub-brand of Isaia), 18 East takes function-oriented basics — with nods to skateboarding and hip-hop — and refracts them through global artisanal processes: block printing from India, Cham weaving from Vietnam and so on. The results both rethink what constitutes American heritage wear, and also find a common ground between slow production techniques and streamlined release cycles.

The richness of the fabrics here is consistently striking. About a year ago, I bought a fleece vest with a crimson-colored floral chest pocket from one of the company's early drops, so there was no need to double down.

But there were plenty of other appealing options: a meaty black roll-neck Irish fisherman sweater with yellow embroidered embellishment made with Inis Meaín ($545); a filmy purple corduroy work shirt block-printed by hand in Bagru, in Rajasthan, with a leaf motif ($95); even the Donegal on a bucket hat made with Molloy & Sons ($135) that collapses in just the right mid-1990s way.

Though they're working similar ideological territory, the stores differ widely in their tack; 18 East is a more particular proposition than Adsum. Also, the silhouettes at 18 East are a little wider, and sometimes lumpier, and vary from item to item, while Adsum is consistently slim. The 18 East clothes feel lived in before they ever leave the rack.

Nevertheless, the sensations of visiting these stores is strikingly similar. I went to both twice, a couple of weeks apart. In each store, it was the same person who greeted me both times, a laid-back guy who appeared to be enjoying the hanging out and soft-sell casual conversation that you can't replicate online.

For these companies, physical retailing is just a small part of the broader business, and accordingly, there is something tentative about these ventures — the spaces are modestly sized, the sell is very informal. (The 18 East office is in the rear of the store — you can peek into it.)

It wasn't that long ago that we were thinking about newish stores in the city as locales for community, places for people to gather. But the realities of running a store have all but decimated that model. Now, just getting the chance to breathe is a victory.

18 East

146 Elizabeth Street, 646-866-4238; 18east.co

Adsum

97 North Seventh Street, Brooklyn, 917-909-1455; adsumnyc.com

Clothes make the woman ... so leave men out of it - PostBulletin.com

Posted: 11 Feb 2020 03:00 AM PST

Friday is Valentine's Day, and you probably have yet to get a gift for your significant other.

So, every few years, I pass along this story. As a reminder. And a warning.

There are two schools of thought when it comes to whether men should buy clothing as gifts for their wives or girlfriends.

The first school is made up of those who believe that men should never, ever buy clothing as a gift, even in emergency situations.

The second school is made up of people who are insane.

Usually, around this time of year, I will innocently ask my wife if she wants anything special for Valentine's Day — perfume or candy or clothes. It's a one-syllable word, but I swear I get only halfway through "clothes" when Lindy gives me the kind of look that makes you remember, "Oh, yeah, the last time I bought you an article of clothing it almost killed you. Literally, almost killed you."

Maybe a dozen years ago, Lindy and I were in Vegas — she had a job then that required a lot of travel and conferences. Right before a big meeting, something happened to her dress shoes — one broke or she forgot to pack them or whatever — and she sent me out on a simple mission: Buy her a pair of dress shoes and meet her outside her event.

In my defense, nothing in my history should have led Lindy to believe I was the right person for the job. One Christmas, I bought her a sweater. Just two years later, she brought that same sweater to a White Elephant party that we attended together. When I reminded her that I had bought her the sweater, she said something like "Oh, no, it was a great gift at the time. It's just gone out of style between then and now."

Also in my defense for the shoe-buying incident, we were in Las Vegas, and I had less than an hour to find something at the Forum Shops at Caesar's.

The shoes I finally decided on were very complicated, with various buckles and straps. They were, in hindsight, the kind of shoes Bettie Page might have worn in 1950s calendar photos.

And while they looked good on the mannequin, they apparently weren't made for human flesh. After wearing them for that one night, the straps cut into her skin and those cuts became infected to the point that she had to see the casino doctor, who immediately rushed her to a real doctor. She spent the rest of the trip on antibiotics and crutches.

Nearly 30 years ago, Lindy and I went on a double-date at a bar with my friend Rick (not his real name) and his then-girlfriend, Trish (might be her real name, I don't remember), whom we were meeting for the first time.

Trish had previously agreed to wear, on the date, whatever outfit Rick bought for her. I don't remember if she'd lost some strange bet or what, but I do remember that Rick was very excited and spent a lot of time shopping.

I also remember that, when we met them at the restaurant, Trish was dressed all in green. Head to toe. The outfit Rick had picked out for her consisted of a green blouse and a green skirt. She looked like the Green Hornet or the Green Lantern, whichever one wore a green scarf and green high heels and green tights.

It would have been overdoing it for St. Patrick's Day.

Rick was oblivious — he thought she looked amazing — and Trish did her best to laugh it off, at least at first. But Rick kept talking about how good she looked and kept forcing her onto the dance floor and kept saying how green was the perfect color for her and how much the green brought out the green in her eyes.

Late in the night, Trish finally snapped and said something like "Enough! Stop talking about it! People probably think I look like the Jolly Green Giant, for god's sake!"

Lindy and I couldn't even console her because — Yes! That's what we'd been trying to think of all night! She looks like the Jolly Green Giant!

Trish, as we knew she would the moment we saw her walk into the bar, broke it off with Rick a few weeks later.

My shoe-buying incident, while it did almost kill Lindy, did not leave any permanent scars, except for the ones around her ankles.

But I'm sure, for Trish, that green outfit night left a permanent mark.