My Birthday Bucks

I have worn white bucks for a very long time.  In fact, I've worn them my entire adult life.  They are my favorite summer weekend shoe when I want to wear something with tone and that is more substantial and provides greater support than a pair of loafers or moccasins.  Not only do I love the way white bucks look, I like the lore of them, and I have a sentimental attachment to mine, as they were a gift to me from my older brother, Frecky.

Frecky gave me my first (and only) pair of white bucks in 1977 for my twenty-first birthday, when he informed me that "No self-respecting gentleman doesn't have a pair of white bucks in his wardrobe," and that it was time to remedy that shortfall.  And Frecky would know, as he was then rather a Beau Brummell of the preppy school of dressing, having recently graduated from Yale and was attending the University of Virginia Law School.  He was also something of a mentor for me when it came to learning the important and finer points of perfecting my sartorial equipage, mixing (and savoring) such libations as planter's punch cocktails or mint juleps, and dining in grown-up restaurants with nary a parent in proximity.

At the time I was between semesters at Yale and spending the summer working at a lowly job in a lofty law firm in Washington, D.C., living with my father and (newish) stepmother in their townhouse on Embassy Row.  That was a bit of a trial, as they weren't used to having a loutish college boy under foot, and they continually bombarded me with difficult and nosy questions when I had the misfortune to come under their laser-beam scrutiny.  They also informed me that they expected me to do my own laundry (even when they had a full time housekeeper who did theirs, and who had done mine in the past) and that I would also be responsible for taking care of various menial chores and projects that summer in return for their allowing me to live with them rent-free, even though I was (according to them) earning good money.  The nerve!

Much to my relief, my newly married brother was also living in Washington that summer and working at the same law firm as I, but employed there as a much more exalted Summer Associate.  So I saw quite a bit of Frecky that summer, which was a great pleasure to me.  Not only was I fond of him and looked up to him, but he was full of all sorts of good advice as to how to manage my humorless father and his irritating wife, having trod the same path only several years before.  One day early in July, having lunch with Frecky in Lafayette Square, he informed me that he had decided to give me a present of white bucks for my twenty-first birthday.  And not just any white bucks, but white bucks from the only purveyor that one was to buy such exalted footwear: Barrie Ltd. of New Haven, Connecticut, located right next door to J. Press in the middle of the Yale campus.  What joy!

The small problem that Barrie was in New Haven and we were in Washington was remedied by a quick phone call from my brother to place an order for a pair, which arrived in the mail several days later.  I was excited to put them on my feet for the first time, and I felt like a swell when I wore them to the office where I was working.  It didn't matter that Barrie had sent a pair that was one size too large for my feet--I was thrilled to have them, and wore them constantly.

And I've worn the same pair of white bucks ever since, for over thirty years.  There have been times when I haven't given them a lot of wear, but that has not been the case for more than a decade.  And it's a good thing that Barrie sent a pair that was a size too large, for my feet grew in my forties, and the bucks now fit perfectly.  Once Memorial Day hits I pull them out and wear them at least once or twice a weekend.  I also wear them weekdays when I'm on vacation, such as during our recent trip to Italy.  And I take good care of my bucks.  I've had them resoled and reheeled countless times, I've had new insoles added, I've had the leather cleaned, and--more recently--I had a failing leather heel of one of them rebuilt.  I also regularly pounce them with a Buck Bag that contains white powder made for whitening white buck shoes.  Sure, they don't look spanking new, but that is fine with me because one doesn't really want to wear blindingly clean, straight-from-the-shop bucks.  It is far better that they boast some age.

You may know that white bucks are the source of the expression "white shoe," as in "He works at a white-shoe law firm," a firm that employs elite and moneyed professionals and that draws its clients from a similar world.  However, you may not know that at one time men were referred to, in certain circles in this country, as "black shoe," "brown shoe," or "white shoe" fellows.  "Black shoe" men were those who could afford to own only one pair of good leather shoes, which of course would be black--the safest and most versatile shoe available.  "Bown shoe" men were more affluent and could afford to have an expanded shoe wardrobe beyond basic black.  "White shoe" men were the most affluent, those who could afford to own many pairs of shoes, including shoes as impractical and upkeep-requiring as white bucks.

Today, when most people (at least in the Western world) have ready access to reasonably priced shoes, such distinctions are no longer meaningful.  But at one time--in the first half of the twentieth century--those were fairly commonly used expressions that many people understood instantly.   Men who wore white shoes--in this case, bucks--were understood to be more affluent and dandified than the average Joe.  And that is part of the allure of white bucks.

Tell me, do you or someone you know wear white bucks?

All photos by Boy Fenwick

Reggie's Informal Undergraduate Ivy Style

Continuing the theme I explored in my post Reggie's Reflections on "Ivy Style", today's essay is one in which I feature images of knockabout clothing that I actually wore as an undergraduate at Yale, back in the 1970s.  Specifically, my crew letter sweater and my trusty white bucks, both of which are sufficiently talismanic for me that I have held on to them all these many years since.

While I am still able to wear the white bucks that my dear brother Frecky gave me for my twenty-first birthday, it has been rather a long time since I have been able to fit into my Yale letter sweater.  With the passage of time one's figure has become rather, um, portly, which is most unfortunate when it comes to one's ability to fit into one's college undergraduate clothing.  Not only is Reggie unable to squeeze himself into his letter sweater, Dear Reader, but the needlepoint belt that his then girlfriend, Victoria Vanderlyn, made for him during his sophomore year is, I am afraid, rather too small to clasp around Reggie's expanded middle-aged waist these days as well.

Ah well, at least Boy gets to wear them (and other articles of my clothing) from time to time . . .

The model for today's essay is George Peterson, the very affable and game husband of boy's assistant designer, the divine Nancie Peterson.  The charming and amusing Petersons spent the weekend with us at Darlington before the onslaught of Hurricane Sandy, and Boy took these photographs of George outfitted in my letter sweater and bucks as a stand-in for yours truly.  We dressed George to look as Reggie might have on an autumn weekend in New Haven back in the day, strolling around the Yale campus or on his way to a football game at the Yale Bowl.  The handsome George is also shown wearing a set of horn-rimmed spectacles similar to ones I wore as an undergraduate, and which I still wear to this day.

We have purposely posed our obliging model next to a sundial that stands on a garden walkway at Darlington, with the autumn trees and scattered leaves in the background.  Time and tide, as

they say . . .

Tell me, Dear Reader, are there articles of clothing in your closets or chests of drawers that you have fondly kept from your college days and that you cannot bear to part with—like Reggie—even though they may no longer fit you, or have fallen out of fashion?

Photographs by Boy Fenwick

Reggie's Alden Slip-Ons, and Why He Wears Them

Last week, Dear Reader, I treated myself to a new pair of Alden shell cordovan, full strap slip-on loafers.  Doing so triggered a rush of memories of when I first started my career in finance in New York City, thirty years ago.  It also prompted me to consider the social and—dare I say it—tribal significance of one's chosen footwear, at least in the dwindling world of those of us over the age of forty who are still employed in the city's beleaguered financial services industries.

Reggie's new Alden slip-ons
sitting on a horse hair covered dining chair
at Darlington House on Thanksgiving Day
Photograph by Boy Fenwick

I slipped away from the Investment Bank where I work the day before Thanksgiving for a much-needed wardrobe replenishment shopping trip on Madison Avenue.  My journey started at J. Press and concluded at the Brooks Brothers flagship store.  Imagine that.

The Brooks Brothers flagship store at 346 Madison Avenue,
where Reggie bought his shoes last week
Image courtesy of Brooks Brothers

I came away with half a dozen shirts, two pairs of trousers, a sweater, a jacket, and the shoes shown in the photograph at the outset of this post.  As readers of this blog may recall, the topic of shoes is one that Reggie has returned to more than once or twice.  In previous posts I've written about my affection for Belgian Shoes, white bucks, and classic Gucci loafers.  I've even written about a much-loved pair of shoes that I wore as a toddler and that I still own (but have long since ceased wearing).  Now, Dear Reader, I turn my attention to another favored shoe in my wardrobe—Alden slip-ons.

The original Alden Shoe Company factory
in Middleborough, Massachusetts, 1880s
Image courtesy of same

I bought my first pair of Alden slip-ons the year I graduated from Yale, more than thirty years ago.  They were brown calfskin and had tassels, and I loved them.  I charged them to my father's account at the Brooks Brothers store in Washington, D.C., to wear at my first job in New York at an old line  commercial bank that has long since been absorbed into what is today Bank of America.  I had been accepted into the bank's corporate lending officer training program, and I wanted to be sure to dress the part correctly.  My father graciously underwrote the purchase of my initial post-college work wardrobe, including the Alden slip-ons, several suits, an overcoat, and assorted shirts and ties.

44 Wall Street,
the building where I began my career in finance
Photograph courtesy of ABS Partners

In those days (the early 1980s), young men in New York's bank officer training programs—such as Reggie—wore Alden (or similar) slip-on tassel loafers to the office.  While older bankers wore conservative lace-up oxfords, by the time I appeared on the scene most of the younger bankers had adopted tassel loafers as their preferred shoe.  What I didn't realize before I started at the bank, though, was that one was expected to wear only black tassel loafers.  I was dismayed to learn on my first day that I had blown my pre-employment shoe allowance on brown shoes, and that all the other young men in the training program were wearing black shoes.

Reggie mistakenly wore Alden brown tassel slip-ons
to his first day at the bank, all those years ago
Image courtesy of Harrison Limited

In those days, men didn't wear brown shoes on Wall Street (yes, the bank I worked in was actually located on that famous financial thoroughfare), but only black shoes.  Brown shoes were considered "un-bankerly" (a withering criticism), and only appropriate for weekend wear.  My father, who was a lawyer and regularly wore brown shoes to his office (where they were perfectly acceptable), thought it "poppycock" (a word he used with some frequency in my presence) that I felt uncomfortable wearing brown shoes to my office, instead of black ones.  Clearly, he didn't understand the cultural and sartorial differences between a bank and a law firm.

The Brooks Brothers store at One Liberty Plaza,
where Reggie bought his first pair of black Alden tassel slip-ons

Needless to say, once I received my first paycheck I high-tailed it over to the Brooks Brothers on Liberty Plaza and bought myself a pair of Alden slip-on tassel loafers in the desired and approved black.  My brown tassel loafers got pushed to the back of my closet, and didn't get much wear thereafter, except on weekends.  I held on to them for many years, though, stored in their original box.  I gave them away ten or so years ago, since by then I was no longer able to wear them, as my feet had grown in my forties and the shoes no longer fit.  It was a bittersweet moment when I finally decided to donate them to charity, as their significance still resonated with me.

Reggie's own well-worn
black Alden tassel slip-ons
sitting on a chair at Darlington House
Photograph by Reggie Darling

By then, though, I had pretty much ceased wearing Alden tassel loafers, having moved on to tassel-free Alden slip-ons in my later thirties.  For those of my readers who may not be familiar with Alden slip-ons, be they tasseled or not, they are a mainstay of a certain group of grown men who work in the lofty office towers of Manhattan.  They are a particular favorite of those of us employed in the worlds of finance, be it investment banking, private equity, or commercial banking.  Most of the investment bankers over the age of forty where I work have at least one or two pairs in regular rotation.  Alden slip-ons are probably the most popular shoe seen on such men walking the halls in the Investment Bank where I work, followed closely by Gucci loafers.  Shoes worn by the younger men at my firm tend to be sleeker, and are usually Italian.  I suspect that Alden slip-ons are to them what lace-up oxfords were to my generation when I started out in banking—the favored shoe of the older generation.

Wall Street today,
the old Manufacturer's Hanover Trust on the right,
US Trust beyond, and Trinity Church in the distance
Photography courtesy of Picasa

When I first started my career in finance, in 1980, those of us in the training program at the bank were handed a sheet of paper on the first day outlining what clothes we were expected to wear, and what clothes we were not to wear.  I wish I still had it, Dear Reader, as I would dearly love to post it here.  However, I don't, so I can't.

A Brooks Brothers window display, ca. 1960s
Photograph courtesy of Esquire

I can summarize it, though, for you.  We were expected to wear suits of a conservative cut in "somber" colors (gray or navy) every day of the week (no Casual Fridays back then).  Shirts were to be either white (preferred) or light blue.  Ties (mandatory) were to be a discreet foulard, club, or rep stripe.  Shoes were to be black, although dark cordovan was acceptable.  Should we need to come into the office on weekends (a regular occurrence, I might add), we were expected to wear a jacket and a tie, and tailored trousers such as gray flannels (winter) or khakis (summer).  No blue jeans or sneakers were allowed under any circumstances.  Ever.

J. Press was (and remains) Reggie's
"go-to" source for smart sport jackets
Photograph courtesy of LIFE Images

As all of us are well aware, these days clothing restrictions have loosened considerably.  At the Investment Bank where I work, suits and ties are no longer required, unless one is meeting with clients.  On an average day I'd say half the men do wear suits, and the rest are in blazers and gray flannels, or some variant.  At least half are tieless, regardless of whether they are wearing suits or not.  Most of us keep several ties in the office should we unexpectedly need one.  While black is still the preferred shoe color, brown is now entirely acceptable.  Long gone are the days when a man would be sent home to change his shirt if he had the audacity to show up at the office wearing one in any color other than white or blue.

The approved shirt as seen in a Brooks Brothers
catalogue from the 1980s.  White or blue.  Only.
Image courtesy of the Trad

So, Dear Reader, you may ask: What is it about Alden slip-ons that resonates with me?  Why have I kept buying them for the past thirty years?  Why did I buy yet another pair last week?

The same shoe Reggie bought, except in calfskin
Photograph courtesy of Harrison Limited

I like the way they look, Dear Reader, and they are one of the favored shoes of the men of my profession and background.  They are flattering to a grown man's foot, they have an easy elegance to them, and they are popular with the well-dressed Ivy League-educated men I have coexisted with my entire adult life.  In other words, they are one of the shoes of the Tribe.  I've bought more than a dozen pairs over the years, both with and without tassels, and I think they look just as good worn sockless with khakis on a summer weekend afternoon as they do wearing Pantherellas and a suit to one's office on Park Avenue during the week, as I do.  I bought last week's new pair to replace an identical pair that had become worn beyond redemption and that could no longer support yet another reconditioning.

The box my new shoes came home in . . .

Photograph by Boy Fenwick

At $650 a pair, Brooks Brothers' Alden cordovan slip-ons are not inexpensive.  However, they are well worth the cost, I believe, because they are beautifully made.  I like the fact that they are also made here in the United States by one of the few remaining American shoe manufacturers.  When the shoes are well cared for (which, in Reggie's book, includes the use of properly fitted wood shoe trees), they last for many years, and Alden does a terrific job of reconditioning its shoes if asked (they have a handy mail-order business for doing so).

The cover of an Alden catalogue
Image courtesy of same

And for all of these reasons, Dear Reader, Alden's shell cordovan, full strap slip-ons will always be part of Reggie's shoe wardrobe.

Please note:  Reggie has not received, nor does he expect to receive, anything in return for this post.  He is posting it solely in the interest of entertaining his readers, which is why he writes this blog in the first place.

Consider the Pince-Nez

Reggie has reached a stage in his life--well, perhaps a state in his life--where he requires the wearing of spectacles to be able to comfortably read the printed word.  It all started shortly after he turned forty, when he first noticed it was increasingly challenging to read menus in dimly lit restaurants, particularly if the font was small and the ink was anything but black.  Over time, Reggie found it more and more difficult to read print in newspapers, on food cartons, and in instruction manuals without some form of magnification.  And then there was the phone book.  It eventually became impossible for him to read its maddeningly tiny print without wearing spectacles or, good heavens, clutching a magnifying glass.

A pince-nez-wearing President Franklin Delano Roosevelt
(note stylish cigarette holder, too)

As a child I thought that a magnifying glass was a mere curiosity, most well employed in the focusing of the sun's rays on a combustible object so that it would eventually burst into flames.  It didn't occur to me that one would ever require such a thing to read fine print.

A selection of our magnification tools at Darlington House

Growing up, Reggie's grandparent Darlings had beautiful magnifying glasses on many of the tables in their house, made with handles of ivory, bone, silver, and brass.  Reggie also recalls one that had a pale lavender shagreen handle.  As a boy I thought they were merely decorative (my grandparents had lots of wonderful things), but I have since come to appreciate that my grandparents owned as many magnifying glasses as they did not only for their beauty, but also because they were useful.  I haven't a clue as to what became of their collection of magnifying glasses, but I wish that I had it today.  Since I don't, I have collected a number of my own over the years.  And I use them . . . because I need to.

But one cannot, or should not, exclusively use magnifying glasses to read in one's office or at one's computer, so one must also employ the use of spectacles designed for such activity.  But as many of my middle-aged readers well know, if one doesn't require the wearing of glasses at all times it is devilishly easy to misplace them.  Or, in Reggie's case, lose them.

The first pair of reading glasses I bought were foolishly acquired from the very carriage trade optometrist Friedrich's Optik on Park Avenue in New York.  No, I was not foolish for frequenting such a purveyor, but rather I was foolish to think that I wouldn't soon lose such a purchase, given my propensity to losing umbrellas, keys, and gloves.  To give those unfamiliar with Friedrich's an idea of exactly how carriage trade it is, their only other store in the U.S. (they are based in Hamburg, Germany) is on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach.  I think I paid over $700 for mine, and that was over ten years ago.  They were a thing of great beauty, and beautifully made . . . and I lost them within a week of acquiring them.

The sad, empty case that once held Reggie's reading glasses

Fortunately, I still have the sunglasses that I bought at Friedrich's several years ago.

I dread the day I shall lose these, too

But getting back to the subject at hand . . . I realized that it would be punishing financially and demoralizing emotionally if I continued to buy my (fast disappearing) reading glasses at the likes of Friedrich's, so I looked into what other alternatives were available.  And I learned that--at the time--the only choice I had was between spectacles custom-made by optometrists, running in to the hundreds of dollars a pair, and what was available off the rack in drug and discount stores for around ten bucks a pop.  The problem with the former was the price and the inconvenience of waiting for them to be made, and the problem with the latter was how they looked.  Cheap glasses look, well--cheap.  But practicality in this case trumped vanity, and Reggie became a devoted customer of cheap reading glasses.  And he bought them with abandon, to the point that he littered his world with them.  To this day I find them scattered about me everywhere I hang my hat: in drawers and under seat cushions in our apartment, in the glove compartments and seat pockets of our cars, and in every nook and cranny at Darlington House.  I also have half a dozen squirreled about my office, and I can always rely on finding a pair by searching through the pockets of my jackets or coats.  In addition to the places where one would expect to find them, my reading glasses also turn up where one wouldn't: I recently came across a pair sitting atop a wood pile in our barn that I had inexplicably left there last winter.

Woodrow Wilson, President and pince-nez wearer

Which reminds me of a story.  Once upon a time, long, long ago, when Reggie was a little boy, no more than six or seven years old, he accompanied his mother, MD, to the drug store, where she was picking up a prescription from the pharmacist.  Both of his parents, and each of his older siblings, wore spectacles at the time, all of which were procured from traditional, independent optometrists.  Reggie did not yet then require wearing glasses, but he did have his eyes checked regularly, as it was assumed to be only a matter of time before he would require spectacles himself.  While standing in the drug store with his mother, waiting in line for the pharmacist, Reggie noticed what appeared to him to be an old man looking through a rack of spectacles.  It had never occurred to Reggie that spectacles could be bought from anywhere but an optometrist, and he found it fascinating that this man was considering buying ready made ones at the drugstore.  "Mummy," Reggie said, "why is that man looking at those glasses?"  MD replied that he likely needed them to read.  "But why is he buying them here instead of going to the Eye Doctor like we do?"  She said that the glasses we bought were expensive, and maybe this man didn't want to pay so much for his.  This astonished Reggie.  "Then he must be very poor, isn't he, Mummy, because he can't afford to buy them from an Eye Doctor?"  Reggie felt intensely sorry for this man who was reduced to such base poverty that he couldn't afford "real" glasses like Reggie's family could.  MD responded that Reggie shouldn't speak so loudly in public and that she would explain it to him after they left the store.

It was with amusement that I recalled this exchange many years later when I found myself in a drugstore, searching through a rack of cheap reading glasses for my prescription.  I had, in fact, become the very man that Reggie had felt so sorry for, all those years ago.

A favorite pair of eyebobs reading glasses

But one needn't be reduced to buying one's reading glasses at drug or discount stores any longer.  A number of years ago I came across a purveyor of ready-made reading glasses that bridge the gap between expensive optometrist ones and flimsy cheap ones.  They are made by a company called eyebobs, which was started by a graphic designer who--like Reggie--was frustrated that there were no reasonably priced, good looking reading glass options available.  eyebobs designs and markets numerous lines of reading glasses that are terrific looking and well made, and that sell for around $65 a pair.  They are available at specialty retailers (Reggie bought his first pair at Neiman Marcus) and also online at www.eyebobs.com.  So now, thanks to eyebobs, Reggie sports a collection of handsome reading glasses instead of nasty cheap ones (although he hasn't thrown the cheap ones away, he just doesn't wear them in public anymore).

eyebobs spectacles are cleverly named

But Reggie doesn't only wear reading spectacles, for he also has a pince-nez.  That's right, a pince-nez.  In fact, I am wearing mine as I sit writing this essay.  Here's how that came about.  Half a dozen or so years ago Boy and I attended a benefit for the local historical society in the county where Darlington House sits.  The benefit was held in conjunction with an antiques show where there were dozens of dealers in "smalls."  One of the dealers had a display of antique spectacles, including a dozen or so pince-nez.   Boy zeroed in on and bought a pair of dashing spectacles made with silver frames and green glass lenses, probably dating from the first half of the nineteenth century.

Boy's rather swell antique green spectacles

I, on a lark, tried on several pince-nez.  And much to my surprise, one of them was in my prescription!  With but a moment's hesitation, I bought it on the spot.  And I have worn my pince-nez regularly since then.  Not only does it aid my vision when reading print, but it is quite comfortable lightly pinched on the bridge of my nose.

Reggie's steel-framed pince-nez

Reggie does admit that he rarely wears his pince-nez outside the confines of Darlington House, for even he recognizes that most people would likely stare and point at him if he did, and that those of the basest sort would likely burst into derisive laughter once they realized what Reggie had perched on his nose.

President Theodore Roosevelt,
arguably the most famous pince-nez wearer of all time

But that doesn't dissuade Reggie from wearing his pince-nez, at least at Darlington House.  Not only is his pince-nez a wizard at doing the job it was designed for--allowing Reggie to read the printed word--but wearing one also puts Reggie in good company: at least three of our presidents--both Roosevelts and Woodrow Wilson--wore them.  While researching this post Reggie came across a number of other, like-minded afficionados of said spectacle, including one by the name of LeDandy, who has devoted an entire blog to the subject: Pince-Nez Renaissance.

I encourage those of you who require reading glasses to consider buying an antique pince-nez to wear from time to time.  Almost every antiques mall or show has several dealers with antique or vintage spectacles and pince-nez for sale, and if you try enough of them on you will likely eventually come across one with your prescription.  Reggie isn't suggesting that you should make a pince-nez your primary reading spectacle, but he does like having one to wear every now and then, and he thinks you might, too.

All color photographs by Boy Fenwick.  Black and white images of our pince-nez wearing U.S. presidents courtesy of the Library of Congress 

Reggie's Reflections on "Ivy Style"

Boy and I spent this past weekend running around New York attending exhibitions and shows, shopping for clothes, and eating out in expensive restaurants.  We had a lovely time, Dear Reader.

The brochure for the "Ivy Style" exhibition
at the Museum at FIT

One of the reasons we decided to stay in the city instead of making our usual trek north to Darlington House was to take in the "Ivy Style" exhibition at the Museum at FIT.  As most of the readers of this blog likely know by now, FIT has mounted an exhibit that chronicles the evolution of a style of men's clothing, originally known as the "Ivy League Look," from its origins on the American campuses of Princeton, Harvard, and Yale (among others) in the first decades of the twentieth century up through the present day.  For those of us who are interested in clothing, style, and social history (and who isn't?) the exhibit is more than worth a visit.

The window at the Museum at FIT
advertising the "Ivy Style" exhibition
Photograph by Boy Fenwick

There has been much written about the "Ivy Style" exhibit in the media and on the men's "trad" clothing blogs, and it takes its name from one of the most popular of those blogs, written by Christian Chensvold.  Mr. Chensvold was involved in mounting the exhibit and is a contributor to the show's entertaining, thought-provoking, and surprisingly academic catalog.  Boy and I were invited to attend the opening of the exhibit by Thomas Cary of the Cary Collection, who lent many of the accessories featured in the exhibit, but we were, to my disappointment, unable to attend.

A brochure published by FIT showing
a Princeton blazer from the "Ivy Style" exhibit

In any event, I very much wanted to see the exhibit, and I am pleased that I did.  I am heartened that the style of men's clothing featured in it is considered worthy of a curated show at FIT and that there is a growing re-appreciation for the classic American Ivy League men's style in today's fashion circles.

One of the window displays at the Museum at FIT
Photograph by Boy Fenwick

Of course Ralph Lauren has been mining this particular vein for decades, but I am hoping this exhibit, along with the chorus of bloggers who have been championing Ivy (or Trad) style in recent years, will prompt yet even more interest among young men in this country in appreciating the integrity of dressing well again.  Hey guys, it's actually cool to wear a jacket and a tie on a weekend!

The Quadrangle section of the "Ivy Style" exhibition
Image courtesy of the Museum at FIT

The exhibit includes a catalog/book of essays by luminaries in the industry that is chock-full of photographs and illustrations from vintage periodicals and sales brochures.  It is a visual delight!

The exhibition's catalog, photographed on
one of Boy's J. Press tweed jackets
Photograph by Boy Fenwick

I've flipped through the catalog/book (published by Yale University Press) a couple of times, mainly focusing on the photographs for now, although I did take the time to read Mr. Chensvold's enjoyable interview of Richard Press, the grandson of the founder of J. Press—the venerable and iconic men's clothing store in New Haven, Connecticut, that did much to popularize the Ivy style.

The University Shop section of the exhibition
Image courtesy of the Museum at FIT

The exhibition is divided into a half a dozen or so themes, ranging from "the Quadrangle," to "the Dormitory," and my personal favorite, "the University Shop," shown in the preceding photograph.

"For God, For Country, and For Yale"
Image courtesy of the Antique Athlete

While I certainly enjoyed attending the exhibit, I had the eerie feeling while doing so that I was spending my time there staring at my own navel.  It was all very familiar to me, and much of the clothing on display could have come from the closets and cupboards of the men in my own family.  My roots in the Ivy League go back a number of generations, mostly at Yale, where my grandfather Darling, my father, and I and my brother were all fortunate to attend as undergraduates.

A postcard of Yale in the 1940s
From the collection of Reggie Darling

It was at Yale that I came to fully understand the true allure and iconographic significance of the Ivy style of dressing.  While my prep school experience at Saint Grottlesex prepared me for Yale (in many ways), it was only upon my arrival in New Haven that I came to truly appreciate the splendor of traditional Ivy League dressing.  I came to Yale as a boy, and I left it as a man.

My father and his freshman classmates in Branford College at Yale,
taken in the fall of 1940.  FD is standing in the second row on the far right
Image courtesy of Frecky Darling

When my father was an undergraduate at Yale in the early 1940s, he was clothing obsessed.  Letters written at the time to his parents in Grosse Pointe (which my grandparents saved and which I read many years later) were full of entreaties from him for yet more funds to purchase the clothing and sartorial accessories he felt were imperative in order to fit in with the smart crowd with which he ran at Yale.

I particularly liked these striped blazers from the 1920s
Image courtesy of Funky President

For my father's Yale 25th reunion, held in June 1969, I remember that all of his returning classmates were given blue-and-white striped blazers similar to the ones shown in the preceding photograph.  However, the blazers handed out were made of paper, like the Andy Warhol soup can paper dresses that were a craze at the time.  What I would give to have one of those blue-and-white striped paper blazers today!

My grandfather Darling's prep school alumni
blazer, ca. 1930, worn by Boy Fenwick
Photograph by Reggie Darling

One of my most treasured possessions is my Grandfather Darling's blazer from the English public school he briefly attended before Yale; I am showing it in the previous photograph.  As the "Ivy Style" exhibit notes, much of the clothing adopted by American Ivy League undergraduates in the early twentieth century had its inspiration in England.  But it became softer, less military, and less buttoned-up when it made its way to this side of the pond.

A vintage J. Press brochure.  I remember poring over these as a college
undergraduate, plotting out my sartorial dreams
Image courtesy of the Ivy League Look

When I enrolled at Yale in the mid-1970s, the Ivy League look was in its death throes.  Even though New Haven still had a number of Ivy style purveyors ringing the campus, almost all of them closed when I was an undergraduate there, with the exception of  J. Press (still going strong) and Barrie Ltd. (long-since closed).

Tweed jackets from J. Press and other purveyors of the type worn
by my father, my brother, and me in the 1970s and 1980s,
as displayed in the "Ivy Style" exhibition
Image courtesy of Vim and Vigor

My father used to let me charge clothes on his account at J. Press from time to time when I was an undergraduate.  Nothing crazy, mind you.  A sport jacket here, a couple of shirts there, some gray flannels, and a Shaggy Dog sweater or two.  Just enough to keep me out of rags, I suppose . . .

A sheaf of my old school ties, mostly bought
at J. Press and Brooks Brothers over the years
Photograph by Boy Fenwick

My roommate and best friend at Yale, William "Willie" Octavius Koenig IV, and I were among the handful of fellows in our class at Yale who appreciated the old Ivy League look from the 1950s and 1960s, and we spent a lot of our free time (and most of our disposable incomes) at J. Press making pests of ourselves.  One of the salesmen there, a fellow named Gabe, used to take us in the back room of the store and let us buy end-of-stock vintage shirts and ties from days gone by.  Gabe used to sell clothes to my father, too, whenever he came to town.  Willie and our friends used to call J. Press "the Squeeze" in those days, a play on its name and a comment on the injury that frequenting it did to our meager undergraduate bank accounts.

My most treasured white bucks, bought for me by my
brother Frecky from Barrie Ltd. for my twenty-first birthday
Photograph by Boy Fenwick

I was something of a throwback when I was an undergraduate at Yale.  Although I was happy that it had gone co-ed by the time I arrived there, and many of my classmates came from backgrounds different from mine—ones that didn't include prep school educations and legacy Yale histories—there was part of me that wished I had been born at a time when I would have attended Yale when it was still all male and more homogeneous and full of people like me, when people still dressed like the undergraduates shown in the following photograph from the 1950s that appears in the catalog from the "Ivy Style" exhibit.

Yale students leaving a university building, 1950s
Image courtesy of Ivy Style

But I didn't, and it wasn't, and they didn't, and that's more than okay with me.

There were still vestiges of that old Yale when I went there, though.  Although official dress codes had been abandoned by the university during the previous decade, undergraduate men during my time at Yale in the 1970s were still expected to wear jackets and ties to university-sponsored events, such as receptions at the president's house or athletic dinners.  And, as a member of one of Yale's undergraduate singing groups (and a highly social person to boot), I routinely found myself donning a jacket and tie at least several nights during the week.  I also owned a tuxedo and a set of tails when I was an undergraduate there, and I had occasion to wear them, too.

Evening wear from the first decades of the 20th
century, as seen in the "Ivy Style" exhibit
Image courtesy of Everything Just So

During my senior year at Yale, when I was a member of the Whiffenpoofs, we spent a week or so traveling with the Yale Glee Club on a Midwestern tour over the Christmas holiday break, visiting places like Pittsburgh, Buffalo, and Detroit.  At the end of the tour, during the wrap-up dinner, I was given a gag award for being the "Preppiest Guy" on the tour, much to Willie Koenig's irritation (he felt he was gypped out of that recognition).  I wish I still had the certificate—that and a lot of other things from those happy, golden, bygone days . . .

The Library section of the "Ivy Style" exhibition
Image courtesy of the Museum at FIT

After I graduated from Yale and moved to New York to begin my Wall Street career, I pretty much stopped going to J. Press, even though it had an outpost in the city.  I missed Gabe from my undergraduate days, and the more urban, corporate Brooks Brothers seemed to me to be the more appropriate place to outfit myself as a junior banker than my old haunt of tweedy J. Press.

A page from a Brooks Brothers catalog

from the 1980s

Image courtesy of Evolution of a Gentleman

It was not until I was in my forties that I found my way back to the Squeeze again.  I'll never forget the time I walked into the old store on 44th Street, the one around the corner from Brooks, and how I almost started to vibrate when I tried on the same suits and jackets there that I remembered my father wearing.  Here I was, all grown up, slipping my arms into the very same tweed jackets and worsted suits that my father wore when he was the same age as I had become . . .

Getting fitted for a classic J. Press tweed jacket, 1950s
Image courtesy of Life Images

Not surprisingly, I still mostly outfit myself from the likes of J. Press and Brooks Brothers.  I also shop at specialty stores that sell traditional men's clothing and accessories inspired by the Ivy League style, in some cases updated for a more modern sensibility.   I like the look, I feel comfortable in it, and it is one that is appropriate for men of all ages to wear.

Ivy League undergraduates of the 1960s
Image courtesy of Take Ivy

In closing, I very much enjoyed attending the "Ivy Style" exhibition at the Museum at FIT, and I encourage you, Dear Reader, to be sure to see it, too, before it closes in January.

A brochure for an upcoming "Ivy Style" symposium
at the Museum at FIT

For those of my readers who happen to be in New York in early November, FIT will be hosting a two-day symposium on Ivy Style on the 8th and 9th that is sure to be of interest.  My friend and fellow blogger, the highly entertaining and mischievously amusing Maxminimus, is scheduled to appear in the gathering's closing round-table discussion, "Blogging About Ivy," which—I am sure—will be one of the symposium's more memorable gab-fests.

Who knows, you just might even run into Reggie there, too . . .

"Ivy Style" will be on view at the Museum at FIT in New York City through January 5, 2013.