Please Uncross Your Legs: Menswear from the Front Lines

GQ Style Editor Mark Anthony Green is delivering dispatches from where style is born: the men's fashion weeks in Milan, Paris, and New York.
This image may contain Clothing Apparel Overcoat Coat Sleeve Human Person and Home Decor
Dan Roberts
Milan, Entry 3
A Valuable Lesson From Tom Ford And Giorgio Armani

Most designers occupy a fickle realm of celebrity. Olivier Rousteing might walk through the streets of NYC for hours before he’d get recognized. Or, depending on the neighborhood, he could be mauled instantly by people trying to take selfies with him. Designers can frequent Kardashian instagrams and dominate lyrics in songs. But most folks—and not just fashion novices—couldn’t pick their faces out in a lineup. Which is why fashion week is such a surreal circus—everyone knows. Everyone knows that even the blurriest Raf Simons photo is worthy of every one of your social media channels. It’s a bonanza of image-obsessed, faux-fur-loving, “chic”-overusing, fashion fans—and it’s a shit load of fun.

In Milan, there were two designers who occupy a less fickle sliver of celebrity—who have risen above their sport into a realm of ubiquity. And in a span of roughly 24 hours, I had one-on-one encounters with both of them. And it left me feeling, well, "antsy" is the best word to describe it.

We started the day by meeting with Tom Ford to see his Fall/Winter '17 collection. If you’ve ever been to a Tom Ford store, you know that he's pristine. His stores are museum-grade pristine, except you can touch the art. Harmony isn’t really the word, because things have an option to be harmonious. Rebellion isn’t an option in Tom Ford’s world. The suits on the racks, the sweaters on the shelves, and even the rare but inevitable lint on the floor all get in line. And despite the perfection, it’s never boring. There’s always a vintage mahogany stool or sprawling tie wall or coat-check boy who’s better dressed than you were at your own wedding, waiting around a corner to surprise you. Tom’s Milanese showroom was no different. Even this early—so early I ate breakfast after the appointment—Tom Ford was in mid-day form. His hair, beard, tie, collar pin, and boots with an exaggerated heel were as unimpeachable as the showroom.

Read More
Tom Ford on Sex, Death, and Why You’ll Never See His Kid in Ugly Shoes

An interview with the candid-as-ever designer-turned-director.

This image may contain Jacket, Clothing, Blazer, Apparel, Coat, Human, Person, Tom Ford, and Man

You don’t see folks often use the word elegant when describing men’s clothing. But it really is most fitting when describing what Tom Ford does best. He makes men look powerful and elegant. And the magic of Tom Ford is that that isn’t enough. Redefining men’s suiting—and the sliver of fame that comes with that—isn’t enough. If you were paid handsomely to do your dream job, and you were one the best to ever do it, would you pick up a second job? Would you design your own stores? Shoot your own campaigns? Make a film? And then make another one?

Would you risk being criticized—or even booed—when success is guaranteed by staying in your lane?

Giorgio Armani had to answer that question years ago. And you can see his answer by typing “Armani” into Google Maps while you’re in Milan. Many, many pins pop up—quadruple the amount of pins than if you type “Froyo” in Kansas City, which I can confirm is a large and depressing number. Mr. Armani’s pins include an Armani Nobu, an Armani café, an Armani Hotel, an Armani home store, an Armani nightclub, and more. (I’m not sure if one of them offers a low-fat frozen dessert.) The name isn’t just a stamp to lure people in. These are his products, created in his image. The restaurant doesn’t just smell like Armani, the brand. It smells like Mr. Armani, the man.

Read More
That Time Future Met Armani In a Bugatti

The Atlanta rapper Future, the fashion legend Giorgio Armani, and one really fast and expensive hypercar—together at last.

Image may contain: Human, Person, Clothing, Apparel, Wheel, Machine, Tire, Sunglasses, Accessories, Accessory, and Car Wheel

This I found out first hand after his runway show that closed Milan Fashion Week yesterday. The vision of the collection was clear: a utopian modern day work place. Like if the coolest marketing firm in Italy had a strict dress code of a dark palette and cashmere. The textures of the suits threaded a difficult needle somewhere between overt wealth and subdued class. And there was ease. Maybe that’s what Mr. Armani does best. Ease. Whether it’s a double-breasted suit or a furry oversized cardigan, it always looks easy. The most confident men always put a tint of tranquility over whatever they do.

But that’s not the lesson I learned today. Tom Ford is in the middle of an Oscar campaign after writing and directing an insanely good film. (If you haven't seen it yet, you should.) And yet, he's here in Milan going over his collection with editors and buyers and couldn't be more into it. Mr. Armani has even less to prove and yet his care, meticulousness was almost omnipresent at the Armani stadium. Like it was pumping through the A/C. I shook hands with two men—two gods—but learned the same lesson. No one limits your gift, your contribution and essentially your legacy but you. To limit it to what is guaranteed—despite how great you may be at it, despite how much you still have to work at it—is sin. Self sabotage. Even after everything they’ve built, Mr. Armani and Mr. Ford still feel antsy. It's why, leaving Milan, I felt antsy. We all should. I assume they’d both give the same advice: if you’re not at your dream job, get there. If you are, excel. And if you’re already excelling, find another passion and kick its ass. All while your hair, beard, tie, collar pin, and exaggerated heel remain unimpeachable.


Milan, Entry 2
Prada Is Worth the Hype

If you're an editor, photographer, buyer, or professional fashion show attendee, day three is the first day you probably feel a bit of fatigue. The international adrenaline has worn out. Your inbox seems uncharacteristically full for a Sunday. And the Sam’s Club portions of nightly risotto coupled with no sleep is starting to take its toll. For me, it was the day my brain started to think about home. I woke up and lurked on my brother and girlfriend’s Instagram pages. What’d they do last night? (Not much). What if the Cowboys get upset and lose to the Packers? (They did.) What if Trump gets cold feet and decides to cancels the inauguration? (He hasn't. Sadly.) It’s not so much that I was distracted throughout the day. There really isn’t time to be distracted, but today I was distract-able, so to speak.

Until the Prada show. As always, the show was at Prada’s Milanese concrete hideout—so massive it looks like it should have a monorail to get you from one side to the other, like an airport. The show space—we’ll call it terminal A—was a maze of benches, long stools, and daybeds. It took everyone maybe triple the time than normal to find their assigned seat. But double the number of people got to sit in the front row than usual, so complaints were minimal. (And with this crowd, complaining is as common as buttons.) The music was brash and quirky, like if Diplo remixed the Tetris theme song.

The first look down the Prada runway was a pump fake of conservatism: blue shirt, solid navy v-neck sweater, and khakis. Business Casual 101. Though I have zero journalistic facts to prove this, I’m positive the model was from Iowa. The general blandness and naiveté of his face gave him away. But as he got closer, me and the couple hundred people in attendance quickly realized that Miuccia Prada, the fashion house’s head designer, was about to do what she’s done time and time again: chart her own course. The model was wearing a wide fur belt. His khaki colored cords were full and long. And his shoes were the complicated lace-ups Prada has trademarked. They look as if some cobbler made one pair of shoes with the material it takes to make three.

MILAN, ITALY - JANUARY 15: A model walks the runway at the Prada Autumn Winter 2017 fashion show during Milan Menswear Fashion Week on January 15, 2017 in Milan, Italy. (Photo by Catwalking/Getty Images)Getty Images
MILAN, ITALY - JANUARY 15: A model walks the runway at the Prada Autumn Winter 2017 fashion show during Milan Menswear Fashion Week on January 15, 2017 in Milan, Italy. (Photo by Catwalking/Getty Images)Getty Images
MILAN, ITALY - JANUARY 15: A model walks the runway at the Prada Autumn Winter 2017 fashion show during Milan Menswear Fashion Week on January 15, 2017 in Milan, Italy. (Photo by Catwalking/Getty Images)Getty Images

By the time we could see the details up close, other models had surfaced. Rust-colored field coats with swanky collars, paneled leather/suede jackets below tinted aviators, kaleidoscopic knits tucked into more fur belts. Corduroy has never looked so aspirational. Everyone whispered that it was "a very '70s" show, and that’s only partly right. The collection looked like it was from a movie made in 1940 about the 1970s. It wasn't just retro, it was retro-futurism, like flying cars. Nostalgic, but cool. Like, really cool. As if each leather trench, newsboy hat, and seashell necklace came with the swagger included, instead of sold separately.

Today, Miuccia Prada achieved something reserved for only the premiere fashion shows: she made everyone in that massive, concrete, day-bed-laden hangar forget for a moment that anything else existed. Prada reminded us that great designers don't chase the hottest fashion house at the moment, they chase ideas and create trends.

After the show, the cheers, the handful of standing ovations, I saw GQ creative director Jim Moore (who, the night before, celebrated 37 years at GQ) backstage, snapping pictures of individual pieces, making a fashion story in real time. “People will perceive this as vintage, but this is now,” he said. So in the spirit of now, I asked a young model from the show named Max, who was wearing a sailboat-and-sunset sweater and a white scarf, how the clothes made him feel. “Warm... but confident… but sweaty,” he said. He’s a bit more green than Jim Moore. But in a way, it felt like they were on the same page.


Milan, Entry 1
Menswear Is Pretty Damn Confused Right Now

It’s like the first episode of a sitcom’s hundredth season. All the normal players—both the animate and the breathless—are back and in uniform. Nick Wooster flags down a black car. Josh Peskowitz walks past the check-in table at half the speed of everyone else. (Twice the cool, though). Scott Schuman, The Sartorialist, scans models with his phone as they saunter by. Photographers are unintentionally sharing body warmth and blocking traffic. Skinny fashion boys are using blazers as capes and using capes as umbrellas and using umbrellas as florescent weapons to fight off the cardinal sin of fashion week: being ignored. Sure, it’s cold. But the coats are massive. Picture houndstooth comforters folded like cannolis. Eyes peeking out the top. Chelsea boots dangling from the bottom. Globetrotter Virgil Abloh is DJing tonight. If you’re cool, you’ll be there. The go-to fashion hotels are fully booked—the Bulgari, the Mandarin Oriental, The Excelsior, Armani’s pristine marble fortress. Breakfast buffets will never look more stylish. Ubers will surge. International data plans will be tested in the name of selfies. It’s a typical Milan fashion week in all its glory.

Dan Roberts

But on Day One I've noticed something. We’re confused. Are our pants full and roomy or skinny and cropped? Italian tailoring or athleisure? Or some mix of both? Should hats be wide or floppy or fuzzy or fuchsia or from the dollar store? Soles of shoes are thicker—but are they monk straps or sneakers or Velcro hybrids? This isn’t just diversity. There’s always been diversity amongst the world’s most stylish men. This is a schizophrenic curation of what looks good. And it doesn’t, ya know, look good. The runway—for the exception of Zegna, who pushed the color of men’s suiting into an exciting new palette—is just as torn. The blazers are traditional. The sweatshirts are side-zipped and graphic. (John Elliott and Riccardo Tisci’s side-eye is haunting the city of Milan right now.) Sweatpants are popular. Damn near mandatory. But they seem to be ashamed of being just sweatpants so much so they all have three too many embellishments. It’s like someone gave a kid creative control over the Christmas tree and they left no ornament unhung.

Are the fashion kids of the world lost?

The confusion isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It means that there’s an open throne to be had. The fashionable menswear aesthetic is often a paper crown. Hedi Slimane and Saint Laurent had it last. And many would argue that Alessandro Michele and Gucci’s dominance is inevitable, if not immediate. (I’m a part of that “many” for the record.) But that’s not what I’m seeing from this collective or from the collections so far. At least not on day-one. And though there seems to be a million ideas—some good, some bad, some Harry Potter glasses with a matching scarf—all fighting for Tommy Ton’s attention, somewhere in that is the winner. The king. The good thing is that we have three weeks to find the look, people. Happy hunting.


Watch Now: What It’s Like to Be a Street-Style All-Star