How To Dress Well
This guest post is by author and cultural critic R.G. Miga. His Substack, R.G. Miga Writes, (which I cannot recommend highly enough—it’s excellent) contains both essays on popular culture and his own serialized novella, The Sea Witch, which is shaping up to be one of the best serials I’ve read on Substack.
I’ve been trying to dress better for about fifteen years now, and the man pictured above has been one of my consistent references.
His name is Frederick Charles Schmelz. He was a two-bit grifter and con man in New South Wales in the early 1900s. The photograph was taken as a mug shot after one of his numerous arrests. Apparently, he was fond of the pig-in-a-poke scam during Australia’s cocaine craze—swapping bags of quality blow for boric powder, then selling them to unsuspecting marks. He was emphatically not a pillar of the local community. Probably no gentleman. Definitely not a role model for social conduct.
But damned if he doesn’t look dignified.
Frederick’s got a lot working in his favor: striking features, a lean physique, and a devil-may-care glint in his eyes (perhaps from sampling the product.) The photographer in charge of mug shots at this time was a bit of an artiste. Still, his outfit is what cements the impression that Frederick is keeping things together as much as possible. Despite the day not going as planned—he got pinched by the rozzers and locked up for sharping—he looks like he’s still got a hand in the game.
Just to be clear: I’m not suggesting anyone should dress like a conman from the Roaring Twenties. While his clothes are clearly from another time, I think Frederick’s a worthy case study because he exemplifies the art of dressing with dignity. He’s obviously a man of modest means. His clothes aren’t expensive, if you look at them closely. The material of his suit is rough and heavy; his tie is creased. The romanticizing power of black-and-white film will forever hide how recently he did his laundry. And yet he managed to assemble an outfit that puts him in the best possible light, for his social setting and for the environment he lived in.
It’s the little details that reveal a certain level of care, despite the workmanlike quality of the clothes themselves. The fit of his trousers is unimpeachable: a clean crease all the way down, with no break, just brushing the tops of his shoes. The wing-collared shirt looks ready for the opera by today’s standards, although it would have been standard business attire at the time. In concert with the waistcoat, the jacket’s peaked lapels add visual weight to his torso and shoulders; despite having a slim build, this combination lends him a more masculine silhouette.
These things don’t happen by accident. Either Frederick or his tailor knew what they were doing. And that attention to detail speaks to some ambition in the wearer: he’s dressing up, in an aspirational sense, toward the level of refinement he hopes to achieve—demonstrating that he means business, even if his business happens to be outright thievery.
He might have been a lowlife and a swindler in his everyday life; but here I am, almost a century later, wondering if there might be something about him worth respecting. And it’s mostly because of his clothes.
As an ideal, dignity is one of those ineffable qualities that can be recognized more easily than it can be defined. Philosophers will tell you that dignity is an inherent human quality, but this is confusing: how do we talk about the way somebody chooses to conduct themselves in order to cultivate respect, both for themselves and from others?
We know it when we see it. Dignity is a manner of bearing that transcends class. I think it has a lot to do with knowing the limits of your power—what you can and can’t do, and why—and feeling secure within that sphere. Understanding your reach and strength means exerting yourself in proportion to the tasks required of you, neither too much nor too little. Dignity conveys a cool restraint in the face of the obstacles that everyone encounters. And since clothes are the barrier between ourselves and the forces we contend with, socially and environmentally, it makes sense that what we wear is the first language of dignity.
Just to drive the point home—consider the people who don’t need to wear clothes. There are exactly two kinds: children who live near the Equator, and fuck-off-rich people like Mark Zuckerberg.
The Zuck has enough money to spend the rest of his earthly existence in a climate-controlled environment, completely unclothed. He has no real need to talk to anyone. He has no one to impress in order to get along in the world. His essential communication can be done virtually. His staff can be paid to gaze upon his pale, shriveled nakedness with an appropriate mix of wonder and respect. Like an exotic lizard at a zoo, he can rest under the artificial sun in his enclosure forever, with the heat and humidity perfectly calibrated to the comfort of his bare skin—everything required for basic existence piped in.
Zuckerberg is at the pinnacle of the sporting class: these are the people who have built up enough material security that they can afford to invent games while others are toiling. When the sporting class goes out to hunt, it’s for trophies instead of food. They attend at court, in one way or another, and exist in a succession of controlled environments: the private home to the private car to the personal office to the private party, and back again. Their circles aren’t based on mutual need, but around the mock combat of social positioning. Consequently, their clothes are costumes—public monologues constructed within an imaginary space of cultural coding.
Costumes are impractical by design. They’re made to exist within the closed systems of privilege, when everyone is permitted to stop working (assuming they ever started working to begin with.) Costumes are what you wear when you’re looking for the approval of other people, trying to be clever or whimsical or provocative, unconcerned about staying warm. They’re not inherently bad; everybody needs to cut loose once in a while. But when costumes no longer represent an exceptional state—when every day is a pageant—clothing tips into decadence and becomes preoccupied with fashion.
Meanwhile, the working class runs the R&D lab from which all clothing originates. For people who have no choice but to get their hands dirty once in a while, clothes are equipment, not an artistic statement. Generations of trial and error produce an elegance of efficiency that can’t be imitated. (For proof, look no further than the bad-acid-trip spectacle of runway fashion shows, when the sporting class tries to reverse the polarity of this process.) These are the essential designs that the sporting class repurposes, with finer materials and exaggerated features that create difference for the sake of novelty. Eventually, when taken to excess, working-class outfits become the caricatured costuming of the sporting class. But along the way, the combination of practical design and aesthetic refinement can produce something that bridges both worlds.
The suit worn by Mr. Schmelz is a prime example of this evolutionary process. Built on the chassis of a soldier’s uniform, the contemporary business suit is a near-perfect balance of form and function. The layering of a three-piece suit provides comfort in all but the most extreme weather, without sacrificing the modesty that dignity requires, while also creating some visual interest. Working out of necessity in the middle of a complex social hierarchy means both showing and asking for respect across a range of social and generational groups; while the sobriety of a dark suit makes it boring as a costume, its seriousness is a great failsafe for appearing reliable, along with the practical benefits of hiding dirt and wear. The lapels—once a functional, weather-resistant high collar—have evolved into a subtle aesthetic touch that enhances a classically masculine silhouette: broad in the shoulders, narrow at the waist. Finally, a brimmed hat keeps the weather off and serves as a practical signaling device for social cues. Thus armed, the wearer is well-equipped for a range of social and environmental conditions.
From this perspective, the contemporary business suit is the Platonic ideal for practical menswear. It travels comfortably across a range of public and private spaces; while the degrees of hardiness in its construction lends it to either working-class or sporting-class settings, its design bridges both worlds. For about a century, this was a comfort for men who didn't have the time or the patience to keep up with the ever-changing codespeak of the fashion industry. The same uniformity that makes for a boring costume also takes the guesswork out of what to wear. Men wore suits. Farmers wore suits, clerks wore suits, bankers wore suits, and—when they weren't dressed in their ritual regalia—the upper crust of the sporting class wore suits, albeit with some ornamental flourishes. The suit and its derivatives formed the foundation of men’s wardrobes; when they looked to equip themselves for the world outside their bedrooms, it was the first and easiest choice for taking on the challenges of the day. It was as much a suit of armor as it was a statement of personal style.
And then we lost it.
The suit used to be the bedrock of menswear until very recently. Now it’s obsolete. Once, there were tailors and shoemakers who plied their trades in even the meanest of towns, ready to equip and advise working-class men; now, getting a good suit and a decent pair of shoes means sifting through a panoply of faraway producers, many of whom are running the latter-day equivalent of Frederick Schmelz’s old con—making something that looks good enough to display online, but falls apart shortly after purchase.
And who can justify the expense, anyway? Social media has turbocharged the culture of fashion: the expectations for how men should conduct themselves in public—the social mores that a sober suit responded to, of showing and asking for respect within a real community—have been replaced by the narcotic buzz of dressing for an invisible audience. Before social media, the balance between fitting in and standing out was always calibrated through face-to-face social interactions. Now the virtual pageant is running every hour of every day of every year; it’s always carnival time online, and people costume themselves according to those expectations. Moreover, the technological advancement of architecture and transportation means that most people spend their days in a closed environment—something that, previously, only the rich could afford—where they don’t need to worry about the world (literally) throwing cold water on their fashion aspirations.
Suits are too expensive, and you don’t need one anyway. But where do you go from there?
Building a suitable wardrobe is an essential first step for men who are trying to reclaim their dignity. Unfortunately, the professionals who used to guide us—the tailors based in the actual environments where their clients live and work, who know the climate and the customs of the place—are closing their shops, with no one to replace them. For those of us who can't afford to have the tailors come to us, we're left with a grab bag to sort through. Back to the drawing board, to cobble together the best we can manage.
Peeling back the layers of extravagance and getting back to practical basics is a good place to start. No matter what your class background is, the remedy for hype and swag and decadence is to find the original purpose of the garment you're evaluating. The vast majority of contemporary men's clothing is based on sportswear or militaria—again, the evolutionary trialing out in the field, where form and function really matter. Find the working-class origins of a garment and take that as inspiration; look for heartier materials and better construction than the anemic department-store knockoffs. Even if you work inside, dress as if you might find yourself outdoors unexpectedly—in case the car breaks down or the building needs to be evacuated. Being prepared has the side benefit of looking prepared. People will notice.
Before embarking on a major wardrobe overhaul, get your finances in order, unless you genuinely have more money than you know what to do with. Clothes are essential; good clothes are less important than fiscal responsibility. The clothing industry is infested with parasites. There are legions of unscrupulous vendors who will happily take your money for whatever they can. If you don't go in with a plan and a budget, it's only a matter of time before you get fleeced. Pay down your debt first; make sure your retirement is fully funded. Let the physical and social discomfort of wearing cheap clothes motivate you to budget conscientiously. (Personally, I like this personal finance guide from The Prepared, because I've found their other content useful.)
While you're saving up for your next big purchase, take some time to learn about the different manufacturing techniques that determine levels of quality. There's a world of difference between paying a premium for hype and investing in a well-made, long-lasting item. "Genuine leather" is vastly different from full grain leather. Stitchdown footwear can have the soles replaced; cemented soles can only be patched. If you can't recognize the physical difference between premium cashmere and whatever American-cheese bullshit meets the loosest legally-defensible definition of "cashmere"—stick to merino
. If it seems too good to be true, it usually is. Get educated and keep your mistakes affordable.Once you're prepared, start from the ground up. Identify the footwear that best matches your profession and invest in the highest quality you can afford. Note here that the highest quality is not the most expensive. If you did your homework, you should be able to find something that's durable, repairable, and sophisticated, and matches the demands of the work you actually do in the physical environment you actually occupy. Quality leather boots are a good daily driver for most guys. Beyond that—black oxfords are for suit and tie; brown brogues are for college professors; designer Air Jordans are for robbery victims. Choose accordingly.
Beyond that, it’s hard to make one-size-fits-all recommendations
, because so much depends on budget, culture, and climate. Books have been written about all the rest. Without the guidance of a professional tailor, it takes a lot of patience to assemble a wardrobe that will equip you for taking on the world.It’s worth it, though: if you do it right, a century from now, somebody will look at your photograph and say, well, he might have been a rogue and a scoundrel…
…But damned if he doesn’t look dignified.
Or just send me your credit card number and I'll do your shopping for you. Scout's honor.
I won’t tell you how to dress, but I will be doctrinaire on exactly one point: low-rise jeans are a fucking atrocity, for two reasons. One: denim is wet when you want it to be dry, hot when you want it to be cool, and cold when you want it to be warm. There’s a reason they used it for prison uniforms. Two: low-rise pants are for androgynous teenagers. Full stop. If you’re old enough to rent a car and think you can still pull off that look—well, that’s a costume, not an outfit, as previously discussed. Regular adults with natural proportions need pants that rest at the waist. There’s no reason this should not be a mechanical axiom. The fact that there are so few affordable options for something so basic is proof that we are ruled by cruel tyrants. Resist.
 | A guest post by
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thanks for the guest spot, Jay!
I'm reminded of Steve Martin who wrote that he always wore suits while performing because he was following an old vaudeville rule—that the performer must always dress better than the audience because it shows respect.