“I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it again, It’s the L.A. moment. It’s the L.A. moment.” Craig stated with enthusiasm.
He did indeed say it twice and probably has repeated that repeated phrase a million times- because it’s true.
Craig said it to me in an easy-going sort of way, looking over at Mike with a smile. The two of them had just spent the entire night painting the interior walls of Commonwealth Proper’s new showroom in DTLA.
The space used to be the backstage area of Al’s Bar, one-time hot spot to see artists like Beck, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and the Replacements. You can still see what used to be the stage in what is now a clothing shop next door. When I was there I could also see a white board with a sketch of the new floor plan and a list of all the construction still left to be completed before they open. It looks to be the kind of classy with an intentionally unfinished rough edge sort of place that I would expect from Commonwealth Proper.
Commonwealth Proper has matured since it started back in 2008. It has grown up in that there will now be 4 showrooms (Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Atlanta, LA), and matured in that the brand doesn’t have to try to be anything other than what it is. They have established themselves and are free to be whatever sort of menswear design shop they want to be.
And I kind of love what they have become. Commonwealth Proper has done this odd thing where they have learned the skill of bespoke tailoring appropriate for Wall Street and too good for Congress, while maintaining both a sense of humor and an edge.
I am not a floral corduroy jacket or full plaid suit wearing guy, I’m too physically large for that much pattern, but I love that Craig makes and wears those things. I love even more, and am the sort of guy, that would wear a fitted navy suit with the two Ron’s, Swanson and Burgundy, printed on the lining. I would wear that to death. If someone pitched that idea to me in advance I would snicker with self-righteous doubt, which of course shows how little I know and how skilled these guys are.
I rarely have a problem with sloth, though physical inactivity is occasionally an issue, but more I struggle with inability to give consistent attention. I am constantly engaged in this project or that, which is an issue when it is always this or that rather than this, all the way to completion, then that.
So, as at least two absolutely groundbreaking, world changing, writing projects sit mostly done on my hard drive, and as my olympian physique gets ever further away, what do I do? I paint and draw.
I have some projects in the works that I think are pretty exciting. Stay tuned (he says to himself and not necessarily the reader).
After driving through what feels like endless fields of well tended rural nothingness, Ann Arbor springs up out of nowhere and somehow feels like a real city. There are crowds on the sidewalks and construction everywhere. I chose the word surprising because Ann Arbor only has a population of around 120,000 people. And it isn’t a suburb of a metropolitan area, those 100 thousand people are the whole metropolitan area.
To give one an idea of how important the University of Michigan is to Ann Arbor one should know that the school has 45,000 students and approximately 25,000 employees. The University is the town.
It is by all measures, one of America’s top academic institutions with each and every department regularly ranked in the top 20, and most of those departments getting ranked in the top 5, but what the school is most known for is Final Fours. As in March Madness NCAA college basketball. The Wolverines aren’t the winningest basketball team in history but they are known to win, and they are famous for calling a timeout when they don’t have any left, and also famous for getting in trouble for paying those players what they are worth.
Sports are “worth” enough money to Michigan that the teams have their own separate campus. There are all the buildings full of students going to top ranked classes, then there are parking lots and actual train tracks, and then there are a separate group of very glossy and secure buildings housing weight rooms, practice facilities and arenas. I had the privilege of pressing my face up against the glass of one of those buildings so I could see a row of shiny basketball trophies with nets draped over them. Very tall healthy looking people were scanning their badges to get inside while I was gawking. The football team has collected more wins than any other college football team. This has also netted them a great number of awards and trophies, including three Heismans and 11 National Championships. But unlike Notre Dame or USC, Michigan keeps their awards behind glass. Michigan fans don’t appear to mind this separation as is evidenced in that this town of only 120,000 people fills up a stadium that seats 1000,000 people each and every time they play a football game.
Maybe all those people from a top ranked school simply appreciate what is hands down the best design in all of college sports- the wolverines football helmet.
A part of growth and maturation is the humble re-learning of things we already know. We understand that what goes up, must come down, yet throughout our mortality we continually toss things into the air hoping they will somehow take flight. Ideas, aspirations, children, all tossed up and most of them tumble back down with varying effect or consequence.
But sometimes things soar.
There have been times and occasions when I have thrown about the idea of committing myself to being an artist. In those moments, before the idea falls flat, I have looked at the careers and works of two artists whose work I have simply always liked- and who I have in many ways imitated. Those that soar.
One of them is Shepard Fairey.
Back when my wife and I were young, and broke, and had nothing on our walls that I hadn’t painted myself, I would troll the Obey Giant website waiting for Shepard’s flash sales but never bought anything. It is hard to justify buying art when the kid needs diapers.
So. Many. Diapers.
In 2007 I made my very first art purchase. It was just a print. The image consisted of two small African children rendered in gold, green, and orange, below the word “HOPE”. It was affordable, $15 0r $25 if I recall correctly, and all the proceeds went to Darfur. It was a perfect purchase. It looked how I liked, had a message I appreciated, with the bonus of potentially tangible aid to a cause.
A year or so later I saw another HOPE poster by the same artist. So did the whole world
My oldest daughter, who I thankfully caught when tossed in the air, recently reminded me that having a fandom isn’t considered cool. I asked her in all of her middle school expertise, if there were some things cool enough that fandom would be excusable. She could not think of any.
This was in my mind when I shook Shepard’s hand last Saturday.
Not that I have ever had any real cool to begin with, but I did my best to keep it in that moment. In every instance I’ve made the attempt to keep my cool when excitement was bubbling hot below the surface, the results have been stiff and awkward encounters. I was awkward and gawky. I tried not to be, as I was in this instance the guest of a guest, but “tried” almost by definition denotes failure.
Luckily the person whose guest I was initially, was, and is, cool enough that I didn’t ruin everything, but at the end of the day- I met my Luke Skywalker.
I also met, but mostly saw, a world, or crowd, not my own. I like that world, I just don’t know it. And in knowing I don’t know it, but finding myself there that night, I felt myself world adjacent. I was next to it, I saw it, but I was never really in it.
That is how worlds work.
You can know all sorts of things without them being a part of you. You can want to know everything, you can look, stare and gawk, but to enter, you need an invite. A host.
How does one find a host in a world they know nothing of? I’ve lucked my way into a few of those in the past. I crashed a party or strolled past the guards unannounced and stumbled into the lap of a host here and there. But gate crashing only gets you so far. It can get you in the room, but not really into the group. I get that. I get it. It is what it is.
It being what it is, is why I have decided that when I have a chance, when I am positioned to be one, I will look for people who need a host. I will be that. In the event that one is outside looking into wherever I am, I will open the door and my arms, and show them the ropes.
No one can welcome everyone, and if where you are is a place everyone wants to be, I get the need to screen. Or protect. Or just rest. But I am not there. I am just here. Just is the right adjective. I am only in this middle place that only some people want to be but aren’t, so I can afford the extra company. If you want into my world, the one I know, I can and hope to be that guy. HOPE. The print I bought had that word, along with the words “helping other people everywhere.”
I cannot expect entre’ into all the spaces and places and peoples at which I gaze. Nor do I deserve it. But if I, or maybe you, catch the eye of an outsider, they will forever remain outside till one of us lets them in. And who knows, maybe one day I, or one of you, will toss out an idea, and it will be one of those hosts who give it wings.
Also… Shepard Fairey, and his art, and his studio, and his friends, are freaking awesome and I don’t care what my middle school daughter thinks!
And also also… Justin Bua is on notice.
In Washington’s current climate of crassness, exaggeration, and accusations, the public are not well served when the press print things that are salacious, silly, or just plain wrong. So as a public service I must say, that no-
Robert Mueller is not a style icon.What a shame that the New Yorker has fallen so far that the editorial board knew no better than to accept the author’s proposal that because the man wears suits that fit, he is somehow doing fashion.
I of course wear ill fitting suits, not because I am anti- fashion, but rather because I am anti sit-ups and there are consequences for such decisions. Somehow we have confused the sort of discipline that includes reasonable portion size as well as reasonable amounts of pomade with style. That isn’t style, that is a healthy morning ritual.
Occasionally in the mornings I trim my nose hairs. This is not some sort of extreme preening worthy of note by the national press, this is simply because I am a grown man with a job who doesn’t want those he interacts with to be distracted by a disgusting nose jungle. Mr. Mueller’s attire might indeed be like my nose, intentionally boring, or it may be naturally boring (like the lucky noses), but either way it is a far stretch from any sort of rhinoplasty.
So stop it Mr. Patterson. Do not tell America that by wearing a pin striped suit with a button-down collared white shirt, that Mr. Mueller is doing anything other than just being boring- and a little bit wrong.
What we really need to discuss is why a man with such an important job is wearing the exact watch I was disappointed to have in 4th grade. I wanted the calculator watch thinking it would help me get an A on my math test. If that investigation is leaking why isn’t anyone looking into that watch because even Mr. Checketts at Bell View Elementary knew better than to start a test without checking our wrists and no one who cares a thing about style is wearing a Casio DW-290.
(Yeah, so maybe this is like a year late- just like the impending indictments)
Most museums are categorized or divided by type: art, history, geography, industry etc, and knowing this I expected the Petersen Automotive Museum to simply be a building full of car varieties. Ford, Chevy, Honda, Lamborghini, and so on and so forth. I expected old through new and broad representation. I went to the car museum the same way I go to the symphony- rarely, and expecting to appreciate but not necessarily enjoy it.
But I loved it.
It was all the types of museum mixed into one. It was history, it was an educational explanation of an industry, it was a celebration of of a culture, and what I loved the most, was art.
Bugatti is art. When I look at a Picasso the little placard could read something like “Portrait of Woman, cubist genre in the medium of oil.” A Bugatti could read, “Rolling Wave, art deco era, in the medium of car”.
Ferrari, a name I first learned from Magnum P.I., is the perfect marriage between art and function. No, that’s not quite right. Ferrari is art and adventure, style and unreasonable speed. Ferrari is as if the Italian sprinters showed up at the Olympic starting line wearing suits and ball gowns then promptly won every race.
I guess today’s children would appreciate seeing Lightning McQueen (he’s in the museum) the child in me appreciated seeing Herbie the Love Bug, Magnum P.I.’s Ferrari, Marty McFly’s Delorean, and the Batmobile all in a row. I suspect Kit from Nightrider is kept in the basement in order to prevent visitors like me from having a heart attack. That being said, I do consider it an oversight to not include Cameron’s father’s wrecked Ferrari from the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off in the Ferrari room.
Anyone who wears glasses, or just sunglasses, knows that the pair you wear affects how you look, and how you see. So you should put some thought into the pair you pick.
I remember getting my first pair of glasses back in the 6th grade. It was a big deal and I remember the selection process very well. The first step was to know the price point my parent’s insurance would cover- it was low. The second, and at the time I thought the most important, was to know I was only looking at the men’s section. Lastly, and this part was the hardest because there were no signs or labels, though there were small hints called “brands” on the inside of the stem, was to try to remember what the glasses looked like in the GQ magazine I browsed while loitering at the grocery store.In the end none of it mattered because I was a self conscious kid and the next day at school some kid said, “Nice glasses Clark Kent”. Embarrassed I stuffed the glasses in my pocket vowing to wear them as little as possible.I have learned some things since then and in recognizing the value in those lessons, I am passing them along to you.
First, consider who you are and what you need. Below is a link illustrating the most flattering frame shape in relation to your face. You can trust Esquire.
Frame shape will help ensure you are seen in the most flattering way possible. now what you actually see while looking through the lenses is another story.
For corrective lenses this is all prescription so trust the doctor, but for shade from the sun there are options. Always go with UV protection, then do as you please with amber tint, mirrored, or the proverbial rose colored. All of these will effect what you see when you put them on.
Some people call this tinting. Some call it perspective. It can also be called a theoretical lens. But no matter the moniker, where you stand and the direction you face, will effect what you see and how you view it.
Let me illustrate, not just what this means, but why it might matter.
Go back up to that Esquire graphic and look closer. What do you notice? Are you looking for the shape that most closely matches yours? Are you noting the brand names suggested with each frame shape and are you at all skeptical that no brands are repeated? Maybe you are like me and are thinking about how the shape of your face has shifted thanks to a shifting hair line and that newly gained flesh between your jaw and neck?
Did you notice that all of the illustrations were of men who appear to be white? Or maybe not white, because how could you really know if one was from China or India? But did you notice the hair? Why or why not? Why don’t any of the illustrations appear to be black? Does it matter? Does it matter to you?
Maybe it has something to do with your lens.
Everyone wants to look good. Even people who claim they pay no attention to physical appearance are still concerned with image. Those who choose not to “dress to impress” are still pushing an image. They just don’t want to be seen as one who cares what you see, which may be accurate for the person in question. They might really not care what you think. But we are all seen none-the-less and we all see things a certain way.
And this effects all of us.
It changes our conversations and influences how we listen and hear. It changes how we vote and with whom we associate and quite often paints what we think is or is not true.
I might think I look hot, you might disagree, but don’t try to deny that I have a face. Check and change your lens, turn this way and that, collect perspectives and views, but then look right at me, or you, or them, and know, and accept, and believe, that there are faces all around and they are people and they matter.
The fact that we all have a lens that influences our vision does not negate some fundamental truths. Everywhere, there is a base, a foundational fact, a place at which there is no argument. A place on which we can begin to build. A face shape. A place to start.
Once you know where to start you can begin making better decisions.
My first pair of glasses began with me having no idea what I really wanted but rather me being told by all sorts of others what I should choose. In the end it didn’t really matter because from where I was sitting, and with the tools I had, I could too easily be pushed around by some other kids whose self interests paid no attention to mine.
So remember, in everything, your lenses matter. How confident are you in the pair you are wearing?
I have no idea how much experience Ralph Lifshitz had with the sport of polo before he sewed a little pony on a shirt and changed his name to Lauren. What I do know is that before the other day that little logo was all I knew about the game. I’m guessing this is true for most of us.Finding myself with some extra time and contemplating my ignorance, I took a minute to linger and look over the fence of the California Polo Club. The first thing I learned was that these folks are surprisingly friendly.A woman with an accent walking past asked me if I wanted to come in rather than peek. I’m guessing she was from Argentina and she introduced me to a man I’m guessing is from the United Arab Emirates. The woman who eventually did most of the talking sounded Californian and was happy to tell me all about the rules of the game; the most important of which was that anyone can learn them and that I should join the club.The next thing I learned, or rather remembered, is that middle class amateurs in any sport are obsessed with the minutia of sporting equipment. In direct alignment with that principle was me realizing how susceptible we all are to the trap of perceptions.
In some places perception is everything.
Right Ralph Lauren?What I watched that day was the testing of novices to see if they were ready to advance to beginners club competition. This testing is somewhat important considering horses are big strong animals with the potential to break regular sized people- like superman.
Milling around the stables and staging tent I watched as a small bunch of both men and women picked out clubs, pulled on tall boots, and tightened up chin straps. One in particular had extra bits of this and that. Fancier bag, extra padding, and a little silver topped whip. No one else had one of those.The one with the extra stuff, also had a little extra confidence. The kind of confidence that breeds the same in others. This one was obviously the leader- the one a competitor would expect to be the competition.
Then they got on the horses.
Captain A Type looked wobbly in the saddle, awkward with the club, and most of all, appeared deaf to the frumpy looking lady with the clip board barking out instructions. She didn’t look fancy, in fact she was wearing an ill fitting straw hat she borrowed from the friendly lady, and Mr. Confidence looked like he couldn’t find the horse’s steering wheel.
I still haven’t seen a Polo game. I remain ignorant. But what I do know is that just like the shirts and their little horses, or in some cases the big pony, or in the case of last names, or fancy little whips, I think they are called crops, looks aren’t reality.
Just seeing something doesn’t really tell you everything.
While many know the tale of Icarus, the guy who flew with waxen wings, then traveled too close to the sun and fell, few realize that his father, Daedalus, made it through that flight just fine. In our focus on failure we forget that a guy crafted wings and successfully flew like a bird.
Sure one of the two who attempted it died (a full ½) but the one who lived, accomplished something so amazing and absurd, that he should be celebrated. Focusing on failure can be such a downer.
I have flown many times myself and no one considers it an accomplishment. So I’m pretty much the same as Daedalus. On the other hand my nephew has learned to be more than just a passenger, taking control of his own story, which my wife fears makes him destined to be Icarus. She protested us flying together and made me show her documentation of my life insurance policy before reluctantly consenting.
It is on odd thing for those of us accustomed to regimented boarding procedures that begin curb side, and march you to, and through, seat belt instructions, to just walk right up to a small tin can, then simply climb inside and fly. The process felt so… casual- but I was too excited for it to be just that.
This was a first for me. New ground.
Or new air.
I had never been so happy to be crammed into such a small place, overlapping the passenger next to me. He happened to be my father. I am used to sitting at a desk, or in traffic, and when my miniature mother took over the controls, despite us flying between two mountains and her not being able see over the dashboard, I was happy. I loved it. I understood how Icarus would want to climb higher and higher, I wanted my nephew to roll and loop, but I had been warned by that myth and I didn’t want to die.
So we flew straight and lived.
Thinking back on my little voyage and appreciating the value of humility in youth versus vain hubris, I wonder a little about Metion- Daedalus’s Dad. Had Deadalus never ventured out, pushing beyond and above his own father like his son Icarus did, no one would have ever flown at all. Where is that lesson taught?
Thus is the paradox of generations and family. Of innovation and respect. Of wisdom or adventure. How does one, or we, value both in these couplings or all in the big picture? Should we be conservative out of respect for the wisdom gained by our predecessors at the expense of progress toward things that could be better? Do we strive and push past the others that came before, risking separation when they are unable or unwilling to make the same trip? Where is the balance? Where is that myth?
Much like Sway, I do not have the answers.
What I do have is an offering for “The Trad”, mocker of my footwear and needler of my regular faux-pas, at the risk of Icarus-ish disrespect toward my parents, who are truly wiser than I… I have indeed flown past the footwear from whence I came- though my journey may admittedly not be complete. I am also much larger and younger than they which will be necessary in defending myself once they read this. Mom taught me the value of kicking shins when you can’t reach your opponent’s chin.
Which would hurt more were she not wearing socks and sandals.