A couple of years ago, former Eidos designer Antonio Ciongoli and Stoffa founder Agyesh Madan headed to India to work on a collaboration. They developed two hand-dyed indigo fabrics – one shirting weight, the other trouser weight – and came up with a hand-block pattern for some prints. Unfortunately, the collaboration never came to fruition. Eidos’ parent company, Isaia, wasn’t sure how the market would react to unstable dyes (in contrast to synthetic dyes, natural dyes fade and run easily). Like Brooks Brothers’ customers in 1959, who angrily stormed back into the stores and complained about how their madras shirts were bleeding in the wash, they worried that people would mistake the character of natural dyes as defects. 

The work wasn’t all lost, however. Madan eventually used part of that trip for a Drake’s collaboration, and Ciongoli used it as inspiration for a new line. Since stepping down as Creative Director at Eidos – which is now run by Simon Spurr – Ciongoli has started 18 East, a new menswear apparel brand under Roller Rabbit. The line is debuting tonight at New York City’s 180 the Store. 

18 East isn’t necessarily a travel line, but it’s about traveling. The number 18 refers to how R is the 18th letter of the alphabet (a nod to their parent company, Roller Rabbit), and East is an allusion to Eastern manufacturing. “Everything we make is with small, artisanal suppliers,” Ciongoli explains. “When people talk about handwork, they’re often talking about how someone is operating a machine by hand. But handwork here means real handwork – even the embroideries are done purely by hand.” 

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Hidden in the history of the tassel loafer is the story of why men’s dress has become increasingly casual with each passing generation. In the post-war period of the late-1940s, right when tweed jackets and Shetland sweaters dominated prep schools and Ivy League campuses, debonair actor Paul Lukas came back from Europe with a pair of oxfords. Their laces had little fringed tassels at the end, which Lukas thought made them look jauntier. So he took them to a couple of custom shoemakers to see if they could make something similar, and they in turn took the job to Alden. The company’s president at the time, Arthur Tarlow, came up with tassel loafers. That makes Alden’s model the original, and Paul Lukas the first man to wear this style. 

Alden’s tassel loafers were an instant success, but they didn’t exist in a vacuum. If you flip through any men’s clothing catalog from this period, you’ll see how much the idea of comfort had already supplanted Edwardian norms of propriety. Instead of high-button dress boots and gaiters, American clothiers were selling low-cut shoes such as white buckskins, brown oxfords, and canvas tennis shoes with rubber soles. In his 1982 Town & Country essay on loafers, which was later collected in his 1985 book Elegance, Bruce Boyer wrote: “To see these newer low-cut shoes side-by-side in the [1915] Brooks catalogue with the then more traditional higher-cut shoes is to realize immediately that back in 1915 the tide was unquestionably turning – had already turned in reality – and that men were allowing themselves more comfort in their dress. Heavy suits and boots, stiff collars, and high hats were all on the way out. Lightweight tweeds and flannels, button-down shirts and soft golf caps, Shetland sweaters and white bucks, had arrived.” The only thing missing from those 1915 catalogs were loafers, which were “the logical extension of comfortable and casual dress that marks the current century.” 

Tassel loafers were the norm by the 1960s, worn to business offices and government buildings alike, and favored by college graduates who wanted something dressier than their school-day pennies. But the tide turned again in the 1990s, when the style became a synecdoche for the country-club set and dishonest lawyers. In an all-too-often-cited New York Times article, Neil Lewis once reported that the term “tasseled loafer” was not just a way to describe a simple slip-on anymore, it was a political epithet:

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Rummaging through a thrift store is not only a great way to score a deal, it can also be a way to find things you may not be able to get elsewhere – maybe a vintage tie made from hand block-printed silk, or a leather jacket that’s been perfectly beaten-up over the years. Unfortunately, thrifting takes time and effort, which means you have to love the process as much as the goods. These days, I’ll occasionally make it out to a flea market, but I rarely have time to actually dig through the dusty bins at Goodwill. 

I do my vintage shopping online, and often on Etsy. More than just a hub for DIY crafters, Etsy has become a marketplace for inveterate thrifters to showcase their finds to a wider audience (one of my favorite vintage shops, Wooden Sleepers, started on Etsy before opening up the brick-and-mortar you see above). I usually search for things such as French chore coats or the now-defunct Ralph Lauren Country label, but when you narrow in on a search term, you miss out on what could have otherwise been a serendipitous discovery – which is the real joy of vintage shopping. 

So, it helps to know some good stores. Here are twenty-one of what I think are the best for vintage Americana, workwear, and militaria, as well as a bit of Native American jewelry and home furnishings. Most stores these days only have a few good things buried underneath a heap of thrift store dregs, but these places have a higher hit ratio than most. I think they’re worth bookmarking. 

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Men’s style in general, and tailored clothing in particular, can be very serious at times. Most of our clothes are inspired by hunting and war, and made in colors such as drab olive, stone gray, and stark white. Fashion historians trace this back to what they call The Great Masculine Renunciation, when men around the world – from the French court to Chinese nobles – traded in their colorful, sumptuous garb for the kind of austere, somber clothes British aristocrats favored. 

Rumisu, an accessories company based in Istanbul, is the antidote to this seriousness. They’re a young brand, having started in the summer of 2013, but they’ve already made big waves. They’ve been picked up by leading boutiques such as The Armoury, shown up on Ozwald Boatang’s runway, and received favorable write-ups in Monocle and L’Uomo Vogue. Much of that is because of how they’ve transformed luxury scarves and pocket squares – which are traditionally more conservative items – into playful, at times even goofy, accessories. Their designs invite you into a dreamed-up world of creativity, have a child-like wholesomeness, and are built around themes that are both inspiring and relatable. I find they’re a good reminder that, even when things aren’t going that well, it helps to have a sense of humor. 

The company is run by a trio: Deniz and Pinar, who are sisters, and Deniz’s husband Emir. Deniz and Pinar grew up together in Turkey, but have dramatically different backgrounds. Deniz studied fashion in NYC, and then returned home to Turkey to be a designer for an upscale clothing boutique, helping them produce their in-house line. Pinar, meanwhile, studied economics at Harvard and then earned an MBA at Wharton. Later in life, when she decided to do something more creative, she co-founded Rumisu with her sister and brother-in-law. “She’s become the total bohemian in the family,” Deniz says affectionately. “Early in our collections, we had a print titled ‘Come Out of Your Closet,’ which was inspired by Pinar coming out as a more artistic person when everyone expected something different from her.” 

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The problem with buying nice things is never the cost of the items themselves, but the costs that can come after. Anthropologists call this the Diderot Effect, which is named after 18th century French philosopher Denis Diderot, who penned the essay “Regrets on Parting with My Old Dressing Gown.”

In it, Diderot rues throwing away his old gown after receiving a beautiful scarlet one from a friend. While initially delighted with the gift, his pleasure turned sour when he realized that nothing in his home properly reflected his new garment’s elegance. His tapestries were too shabby; his chairs creaky. So, one by one, he replaced his familiar, but well-worn furnishings with things that were fancier. He replaced his straw chairs with an armchair covered in fine Moroccan leather; his old desk with an expensive writing table; and his previously beloved prints with pricier paintings. 

In the end, Diderot found himself in debt and not even that comfortable in his new surroundings, as he realized his old possessions were just as good, if not better. “Why didn’t I keep my old dressing gown,” he lamented. “It molded all the folds of my body without inhibiting it; I was picturesque and handsome. The other one is stiff, and starchy, makes me look stodgy. There was no need to which its kindness didn’t loan itself, for indigence is almost always officious. If a book was covered in dust, one of its panels was there to wipe it off. If thickened ink refused to flow in my quill, it presented its flank. Traced in long black lines, one could see the services it had rendered me. These long lines announce the litterateur, the writer, the man who works. I now have the air of a rich good for nothing. No one knows who I am.”

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As the world gets smaller, so do our possessions. What may have been that stack of books and papers you’d schlep twenty years ago is now just a few PDF files. The daily newspaper is now online. And your iPod, which used to be a technological wonder that fit your entire music library into the palm of your hand, has disappeared into your phone. My daily carry nowadays is usually not more than my laptop and its accompanying charger – and all that neatly fits into a portfolio, which I think of as a modern briefcase. 

Folios are surprisingly uncommon here in the US, but they’re tremendously useful. For one, they’re easier to manage than a traditional briefcase. If you’re running through the city, climbing in and out of cabs, it’s easier to reach into your belongings when you don’t have to fumble through a bunch of clasps or buckles. Plus, unlike a backpack, a folio doesn’t have any straps that could ruin a tailored jacket’s shoulder line. 

The downside, of course, is that they don’t carry very much (by design). But who carries more than a couple of electronics nowadays? Lunch gets eaten on the go and I’m not health-conscious enough to carry a water bottle. Plus, leather bags are heavy, which means I only break them out when I need to. Take it from the Japanese, who are often photographed with a folio under their arm. If you’re walking around the city all day, you’d be happy to not have to carry around five pounds of luggage. 

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In 1936, the editors of Apparel Arts published “Permanent Modern,” a fourteen-page article introducing their vision for the ideal menswear store. The article spares little in details. Included are elaborate floor plans and descriptions of the materials that should be used for the architecture, fixtures, and display cases. According to the editors, things should look modern, but not “voguish modern,” as you want to catch the customer’s eye, yet also make the place feel inviting. They even specified the lighting and air conditioning systems (two whole pages were dedicated to that). Should the reader want to implement their vision, they included a directory for the contractors, suppliers, and equipment manufacturers who could help with the store’s construction.

The store they imagined was grand – something like a Saks Fifth Avenue, but solely dedicated to men. There were five retail floors, each dedicated to a certain class of items. On the first floor, you had accessories and footwear. Moving up, there were sport, prep, and university clothes; then high-end tailoring; and finally moderately priced attire and boy’s clothing. The basement floor was to be a club lounge with fruitwood furniture and a fully stocked bar. And at the top-most floor, there would be a penthouse restaurant with an open-air dining terrace. Apparel Arts’ editors imagined that the terrace could be converted into a skating rink in the wintertime, which could also double as a stage for showing clothes on live models. 

 

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It’s hard for me to imagine going without a pair of sneakers this time of year. Summer is about having the windows down and volume up, biking somewhere on a hot afternoon, and hanging your feet off a picnic bench while BBQ-ing with friends. Camp moccasins and penny loafers can be great for these sorts of things, but I also like having a pair of casual sneakers you can wear with jeans and camp collar shirts. 

I’ve cycled through a bunch over the years, but find I keep returning to the same ones (although, the first pair below were recently acquired). If you’re looking to get a pair this summer, here are some of my favorites. Since they’re mostly designer shoes based off classic silhouettes, I’ve included links to the originals, which are much more affordable. As sneakers go, the build quality between the low and high end of the spectrum is smaller than it is in dress shoes – almost everything is in design. I like the uniqueness of these versions, but their designers found the originals to be inspiring for a reason. 

Visvim Bamboo Skagways

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