Are You There, Giorgio? It’s Me

Article by Ben Goldstein, Image by Francisco Faria (@franciscofaria)

The mission was simple: donate some old clothes and escape without any new wardrobe additions. Thankfully, any given Goodwill in Manhattan is usually too picked over to cause any consternation. Old habits die hard, so I still checked the suits and ties. 

I quickly decided that an acid green paisley Polo Ralph Lauren tie was not in my best interest (unless I plan a future rivalry with Batman) and moved on to the suits. I idly skimmed past the usual cheap cast offs from Vietnam and Indonesia, rendered in various sickening textures of polyester. “We used to build things in this country,” I thought to myself. It’s easy to get a little depressed in a thrift store when you remember that you’re surrounded by the castoffs of the aged or dead. Suddenly, a formidable gray double-breasted ensemble stopped me in my tracks. 

A hang tag read “Made in Italy” in fancy script — a very good sign. I leant in for a closer look. The white label on the inside revealed it to be the work of the recently departed Mr. Giorgio Armani himself, found only at Bergdorf Goodman, 745 Fifth Avenue circa 1990. He had blessed me, his most devoted disciple, from beyond the grave. I closed my eyes and intoned my thanks silently. The shoulder tag revealed that the suit could be mine for $29.99. There was no fitting room, but I held it up to my shoulders and looked in the mirror. I permitted myself to dream a little.

The suit in question, courtesy of the Armani Spring 1990 Ready to Wear Menswear Runway Show.

I own a lot of clothing, but a suit is conspicuously missing from my collection. This might seem mostly practical, but it’s also occurred to me that my reservations might not be entirely utilitarian. My family’s roots in the men’s clothing industry mean that the concept of the suit has always been infused with a certain symbolic mystique. Some of the earliest fatherly advice I can remember was how to fold a suit jacket: always along the center back seam, so as to protect the delicate padding of the shoulders and eliminate any possibility of wrinkles. Nonconformity with these exacting style standards did not reflect well on the family. It should surprise no one, therefore, that the last time I wore a suit was probably for my Bar Mitzvah. 

A sign by the checkout helpfully reminded me that there were “NO REFUNDS OR EXCHANGES”. The line was long and slow, so I was afforded plenty of time to reflect on all that had brought me there. I battled anxious thoughts that this $30 outlay could ruin me. Maybe I’d never wear it, and it would hang in the closet like an albatross around my neck. Maybe I would, and people would constantly think I was doing a David Byrne impression. Being no stranger to the buying and selling of vintage Armani, I knew I could probably get my money back on eBay if it didn’t work out. Of course, there was also the possibility that I was hopelessly wrong about that, and no one would ever want it. “You absolute fool,” they would say. “You couldn’t pay me to take that off your hands.”

Thankfully, by the time I was on the subway home, the thrill of anticipation had beat back the creeping humiliation of commitment. I passed on a bag at checkout, so I cradled the suit to my chest like it was a newborn baby swaddled in layers and layers of gray checked Italian wool. The overcrowded subway car forced me closer than I’d like to a man intently gnawing his fingernails. “Outta my way, asshole,” I thought as the door opened. “Don’t you know I’ve got a brand new Armani suit here?”

More Armani suits, this time front and center at the 2003 NBA Draft.

I gingerly unfolded the suit when I got home. Discarding my sweaty subway outfit, I prepared for the moment of truth. The pants were in fact so wide that I didn’t need to unbutton them to slide them on. Thankfully, in his eternal benevolence, Mr. Armani had provided belt loops that allowed me to fasten the swishy pants to my waist. The jacket had exaggerated shoulders that sat nicely on mine, though it extended almost to my mid-thigh. Almost distressingly, the sleeves fit. The Armani suits of the early 1990s were famous for being boxy, long, and low — a look that would reach a fever pitch in the baggy suits of the 2000s. It was certainly boxy, long, and low, but I was maddeningly unable to determine if it was too boxy, long and low. 

With some trepidation I sent a few pictures to my family group  chat. “It’s very large on you,” responded my father. It was deemed “not for a family event”. My mother was gentler in tone but largely concurred. I helpfully sent them a picture from the Armani Spring 1990 runway to assert that yes, it really should look like that. My brother sent a picture of Kanye West in the Roblox-esque rectangular outfit he wore for a 2018 music video, but also encouragingly added the phrase “looks Balenci.” It is tough to be at the cutting edge of art and design.

I tried my best to be honest with myself. Was I just living in the past? After all, I have no personal claim to the heady years of the early 1990s. This was a power suit designed for martini lunches at Delmonico’s, not for slop bowls at Sweetgreen. Armani’s suiting was revolutionary, but it was a revolution against a buttoned-up 1980s styling that’s already sunken deep into our collective past. Perhaps that battle has already been won. Maybe the suit as a concept is already dead, and I’d be better off in a matching Lululemon workout set. Grasping for answers, I looked within the suit jacket’s interior pocket. An aged tag reads “Composizione: 90% Lana / 10% Poliestre”. Some things never change. 

The highly esteemed and highly regarded artists Lil’ Pump and Kanye West in the music video for “I Love It”, 2018.