Getting in deep with an idea as subjective as menswear proves more harm than good sometimes. I ask questions. I get answers. I only have more questions. And down the rabbit hole we go.
Am I best suited with the English or Italian cut?
How many pairs of brown leather shoes is necessary?
What is the value of doing something by hand?
The last question came back around one afternoon in Pacific Place, exhibiting an annual collection of art hosted by the local French cultural bureau. This year’s focus, the French tradition of shoemaking, displayed the country’s fine history of crafted soles in and outside of the Parisian epicenter. One Saturday afternoon hosted Hong Kong colorist Kelvin, who demonstrated Maison Corthay’s unmistakable patina, all done with focused brushstroke.
Kelvin laid out his fine and fraying brushes, bottles of dyes, and blank canvasses of calfskin, tied his apron, and began a layer, accompanied by curious onlookers and those like myself unloading with English and Cantonese questions.
At my age, the days of youthful independence are waning; new mothers and fathers among my friends wax endlessly about parenthood and the gifts it brings. Fatherhood has yet to call me to service, but I wait eagerly for it. And just as much, I worry if my children will ever listen to me. For as much as I love my own dad, I follow his advice as much as you’d trust your dog to file your taxes.
I met one exceptional example of successful fatherhood. Park Jungyul worked from the bottom of Korean tailoring to build Seoul’s leading tailoring house from the ground-up. Among its foundations are his two sons, Changwoo and Chanjin, who followed their father’s footsteps, while carvings sartorial paths of their own. The result is timeless and bold suits of flawless quality.
The Parks caught the attention of one Joe Ha, owner and proprietor of The Finery Company, a Sydney-based menswear collective showcasing suiting and accessory brands up to par with Joe’s own impeccable taste.
With an afternoon between generously timed trunkshow appointments in Hong Kong, Mr. Park, Chanjin, and Joe shared the importance of time, a commitment to God-given talents, and the secrets of a good family project.
This is B&Tailor.
From right to left: Joe Ha, Park Jungyul, Park Chongjin
Chris Tuazon: I’ve done a lot of homework before our conversation, just as I expect my students to. One of your sons shared that you deliberately put Korean rooking atop your building to signify this is first and foremost a Korean tailoring house. You are the first Korean tailors I have met, so what would you say is the Korean approach to suiting?
Park Jungyul: I would say . . . as much handiwork as possible. We like to create a silhouette that’s more volumetric than flat, and this gives the suit life. Although no two physiques are same, there are points where we can balance things out for every individual—strike a harmony—and achieve a beautiful balance.
I’ve noticed many questions about Red Cloud’s goat patch label, and what exactly it all means. After all, Chinese and English are notoriously awful at using each other’s language.
During our discussion, Raymon admitted that foreigners are at least confused, at most frightened by the label and its wall of mysteries.
So again, with the help of my beautifully bilingual bride, here is the translation of the Red Cloud & Co label. Please note: characters read top to bottom, right to left. Please do so here.
Of the different brands and companies I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, Red Cloud struck a chord for my wife Laura. This clothing company wasn’t just another top-dollar item for her husband to blush and blog over. Red Cloud was home.
Like we all do, Laura’s blood runs deep into her hometown, all the way to her dying day. Her sanguine tracks point Shenyang, a northeastern city covered in cracking dust and biting snow . Growing up here requires a tough exterior, mincing few words with resolute action.
Raymon makes jeans that are Shenyang tough. In his flagship store he met Laura and me with a faded-to-sky, beat-to-hell pair of his own denim hanging at his waist. And just like your typical Shenyang man, he speaks with a gentleness and humor belying the hard shell.
With a history studying oil painting, apprenticeship in Japan’s Fullcount Denim, and a self-taught approach founded in his own line, Raymon and his homegrown company are enjoying deserved praise for their creations.
Laura and I were honored to share this brand and this story with us. Please meet Raymon of Red Cloud and Company.
Chris Tuazon: Denim, just like any other artisanal creation, is full of terminologies and peculiarities. To someone who has totally no idea, what’s a good place to start with thinking of a great pair of jeans?
Raymon: It’s a hard question, but it really comes down to what kind of person you are, what kind of job you have, why you’re wearing it. My customers are not going to pay too much attention to style: too skinny, too loose, etc. They look at the details: the fabric, the metals, the stitching.
I submit my six year-old pair of Levi’s 511 dark wash, seldom actually washed skinnies. It’s been cuffed and rolled, scuffed and crumpled, stains and dirt caked into weathered grooves. A crotch blowout repaired at a Korean dry cleaner is Astoria Queens, signs point to another before too long. One of the few times I washed it was when I returned from a long vacation to find it caked in mold – war Shenzhen will do that to ya. It gave when my waist favored the Chipotle craze, and it took when I my calves fell into triathlons. They still sit among the top of the pant stack.
My old friend: the Levi’s 511. Sic transit gloria.
So when I caught wind of the initial craze of premium denim, I stood unconvinced that a pair of jeans five times the price of my good ‘ol blues was worth the hit to my back pocket. You can take your precious red seam stitches and kick rocks.
But as my admiration grows for the art and skill imbued in honest clothing, so does the attraction of finer cloths. And eventually dark washes, glorious fades, and even those red train tracks put me on course for my first pair of raw denim. The question is, which one?
Well, time-killing stroll in northern China decided it for me.
If you have yet to see in-person a pair of leathers from the famed Parisian bottier Corthay, you must make a point to. Though not exactly in line with my more conservative wardrobe, one can nevertheless appreciate their collections of unmatched patina as fine works of art, in or out of the shoemaking world. I rubbernecked their Landmark Hong Kong window display on my inaugural visit, and I’ve since made a point to admire the gallery when I’m nearby.
Next month, I’ll pay special attention to Maison Corthay when two new models, the Brighton and Twist, arrive to Hong Kong. The pair are brothers of the same chord, as they draw their inspiration from the tastefully brazen youth of sixties rock ‘n’ roll.
A recent Valet article reminded men about that old tune: we love seeing our women in our clothes. I don’t think I need to explain. Just think of high school and all the cold morning hoodies we’ve never seen again in the name of getting her to crush on you back.
But even recently, there’s been a surge of women taking men’s classics out the front door. And as usual, they beat us at our own game. With a spectrum from Sarah Ann Murray‘s rakish overtones to Lauren Yates‘ baggy & beautiful throwbacks, the fairer sex can cut into a male silhouette with disarming effectiveness.
Ring Jacket is a house whose members serve as the color guards for a company of eclectic tastes. The company and Instagram feed depict classic styles, modern inspirations, and looks that defy categorization.
The sixty-one year old company endearingly tags their staff as “Ring People,” a title each wears with pride. At Ring Jacket Aoyama, I had the chance to meet and speak to Mr. Keiju Tsuda. I followed the frayed edges of a tear that epauled the shoulder of his veteran Barbour Bedale to a café near the flagship.
On our way for a reviving cup, he admitted that although his English was the best of the team, it was nowhere near good enough to hold a conversation with me.
“When I lived in Scotland, I had to drink to be able to speak English to the locals in the pub.”
“How was that?” I inquired.
“Well, I drank a lot!”
Over a much more sober tap, Keiju shared stories of his beginnings as a fashionista, a favorite suit, lessons from a local mentor, and a long-established love for surfing.
Please meet Keiju Tsuda, a Ring Person.
Filing and ticking fabric swatches in the Toyama flagship (Photo credit: Ring Jacket Aoyama)
Chris Tuazon: Keiju, how long have you been with Ring Jacket?
Keiju Tsuda:I have been working with them for two years now.
CT: And how long have you been working with suits?
KT: About, ten years. I graduated from university in 1997, and my first job was with agnès b. I worked for there for five years, and then went to UK to study English for 8 months. When I came back, I worked for Prada for two years. I then worked for a Japanese tailor here for seven years.
CT: I have noticed a range of styles here in Japan, with a noticeably international flavor from look to look. What do you think is the Japanese style of suits?
KT: Typically, people here prefer the British style. The more knowledgeable in fashion like Italian.
CT: And I guess you prefer Italian as well?
KT: Yes, it’s very nice!
Keiju sits comfortably in the soft Italian tailoring of a RJ Meister suit (Photo Credit: Ring Jacket Aoyama blog)
On my last day in Tokyo, I momentarily caught myself in the tourist shuffle: wandering into an alley, then another, searching for any hint of address, doubling back, pacing in square circles, swearing that the café we researched had to be right around here. I took a moment at the buzzing Harajuku intersection to grasp any sense of direction. Waiting at the crosswalk, I saw no less than:
One pastel woman in Doc Marten boots and a Victorian wig
Two of four perfectly chromed hubs bouncing to the hydraulic initiations of a lowrider impala
A corner shop dedicated to a rainbow of prophylactics, appropriately called Condomania
I bet everyone has caught their own version of this scene in Japan, a self-contained ecosystem of idiosyncratic flairs. The Galápagos of style.
In the metro, the cavalier mode above contrasts with everyday businessmen, commuting in hues as muted as the subway cars that transport them. Gray, navy, black. Crisp, polished, deft. It was as if the underground spreads of Brooks Brothers surfaced into bubbles of cosplay. Except here, there’s no sign of caricature or false characterizations.
For whatever reason – be it the lifelong reverence to improving upon one’s craft, or the flawless execution of foreign signatures, at-times to the point of succeeding its progenitor – Japan has always been able to embody an assortment of styles on any given day with breathless ownership.
And I think that’s what’s kept Ring Jacket relevant through its sixty-one years.
Making a trip to Disneyland always holds that certain power over our inhibitions to awaken some inner child that, whether we admit it or not, kept us from sleeping soundly the night before. Once you make it through the entrance, any reasonable adult will transform into a ball of giddiness for spinning cups, high-fives from Goofy, and on hotter Anaheim days, animatronic presidential addresses. And that’s okay. Within the walls of the Magic Kingdom, it’s okay to wear monogrammed Mickey Ears and challenge Gaston to a pushup contest. That’s why we go there.
It’s hard to think of other places that hold such gleaming nostalgia for its visitors, until Laura and I headed to Mitaka to visit the Ghibli Museum.
