In a business that demands credit for the most minor of innovations, Scott did the opposite. He insisted we include a hangtag on each suit stating it was hand tailored at the hundred-year-old factory of Martin Greenfield Clothiers—a classy move and stroke of branding genius.
The same can be said for my rag & bone boys, Marcus and David—two brilliant Brits I love working with. They got in touch in late 2006. In September of the next year, they invited us to attend their 2008 spring collection show. The rest is history.
Few things excite me more than young designers who are serious and passionate about craftsmanship. That’s Marcus and David. They love what they do, and it shows in the way they do their homework, remain true to their English design impulses, and always mind the details and do the work.
In addition to handling rag & bone’s made-to-measure clientele like Jimmy Fallon, the boys have us take care of fitting their own suits. It’s the ultimate compliment from designer to tailor. It’s also a hell of a lot of fun. A few years back, we were fitting Marcus’s and David’s tuxedos for the 2009 Costume Institute Gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, more commonly known as the Met Ball. They loved their hand-tailored tuxes so much that they asked us to make the actress Lake Bell a matching tux to wear to the event as well.
Marcus and David’s commitment to keep jobs and production here in America speaks volumes about the brand they’re building and the men they are. Even though they’re English, they both married American girls and live here in the States. They strive to look after the home team and take corporate stewardship seriously.
When they took top honors in 2010 for CFDA Menswear Designer of the Year, we couldn’t have been happier for them. I expect major continued success from my rag & bone boys.
The tango between designers and makers is an intricate partnership combining whimsy and hard work. Through the decades I’ve been blessed to dance with many of the best. Together, we choreographed styles and trends that clothed the world’s most glamorous and powerful men.
Fashion. It’s the dance that never ends.
CHAPTER TEN
DRESSING PRESIDENTS AND POLITICIANS
“Politics is show business for ugly people,” or so the old saying goes.
Since my early days at GGG, I’ve worked hard to make sure America’s political power brokers look anything but ugly. That’s important. In politics, perceptions become reality. Especially today, when a president’s every move reverberates around the globe.
Even in the old days, though, most of the politicians I dressed understood that a leader’s appearance represents something much larger than his political views. It symbolizes America herself.
Few of my political clients have understood the power of a fine suit better than those from military backgrounds. I learned about that power myself during my brief service in the Czechoslovakian army. Soldiers wore suits every day, and the importance of maintaining a crisp appearance was pounded into them. They knew an officer’s rank and authority by his uniform. Indeed, the relationship between men’s fashion and the military is longstanding. Civilian staples like pea coats, khakis, t-shirts—they all started with the military.
One of my first political clients was my liberator and hero, General Dwight D. Eisenhower. After the war, when he needed a civilian wardrobe, he turned to his friends the Goldmans. One day in 1949, Mr. Goldman pulled me aside. “I’ve got a special assignment for you,” he said. “I need you to oversee the production of suits for President Eisenhower.”
“Eisenhower?”
“Yes.”
“He liberated me! He’s not the president, he’s a general!”
“No, not the president of the United States. He’s now the president of Columbia University. He needs suits. They have to be perfect, and I know you’re the man for the job.”
“That man saved my life. I will make sure we make him the best suits GGG has ever made!”
I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d been given the chance to use my skills in the service of a man who had my complete respect. In my mind, General Eisenhower was a giant. But, according to the measurement card, he was 5 feet, 10 inches and 172 pounds, had a 40-inch chest, wore a size 41 jacket, and had a 36-inch waist. I supervised the making of the suits—watching the buttonhole makers, the pocket makers, the under-collar makers, everyone involved with the process—to ensure that every stitch was flawless. I’d never been so obsessed with a suit order. Nothing could be wrong. Everything, as Mr. Goldman said, must be perfect.
Mannie Goldman, who was close with Eisenhower, would have an idea of what the general thought of the suits. The next time I saw Mannie, I jumped him.
“Well, what did he think?” I asked.
“He loved them. Said they were absolutely perfect.”
I’d never been more proud in all my years as a tailor. We dressed Eisenhower throughout his tenure at Columbia University. Any time he needed a GGG suit, pants, vest, anything, the order went straight to me. I followed Eisenhower’s political rise closely. His ascension to the White House felt like a personal victory, a confirmation that I was not alone in my admiration of the man whose leadership helped win World War II.
I continued making Eisenhower’s suits into his presidency. He was the first president I dressed. But given the Goldmans’ personal relationship with him, they got all the face time. If I were going to communicate directly with President Eisenhower, I had to get creative. The Suez Canal Crisis that unfolded in 1956 and 1957 prompted me to do just that.
America’s tepid response to Egypt’s nationalization of the Suez Canal frustrated me. I didn’t like that we were sitting on the sidelines while Britain, Israel, and France were already in the thick of the fight. I believed America needed to send Egypt’s president, Gamal Abdel Nasser, a strong response, one that could not be ignored.
Foreign policy expert that I was, I determined that President Eisenhower, the former Allied commander and one of only nine five-star generals in American history, was in dire need of my strategic advice. I wrote him a brief, anonymous note. I knew it would never reach him if I sent it through the mail, so I put it in the outer pocket of a jacket I was making for him (and a duplicate in the inside pocket, in case someone found and discarded the other one). “If you want to end the Suez Crisis, you’ll send [Secretary of State] John Dulles on a two-week vacation,” I wrote.
A few weeks later, I had another brilliant, penetrating insight into international relations on which the leader of the Free World needed my counsel. So I jotted it down and slipped it into another jacket pocket. This unconventional form of presidential advising continued until the Goldman brothers paid a visit to President Eisenhower at the White House. When they returned, I asked them what he thought of his most recent suit.
“The president loves the suits. But he said someone keeps writing and leaving notes in his jacket pockets. He said there were even letters in the golf pants we made him. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you, Martino?” said Mr. Goldman with a suspicious glance and a raised eyebrow.
Eisenhower was so amused that he eventually told reporters there was a Brooklyn tailor who kept slipping foreign policy advice into his clothes, and the story became more widely known.
Today, my youthful hubris makes me smile. Looking back, though, my innocent, wide-eyed optimism that an American president would read or care about my opinions was a further reflection of my belief that in America, even the little guy’s voice is heard. Ike had dealt with the rookie antics of low-ranking infantrymen all his life. If nothing else, I hope my notes gave him a good chuckle.
Military men may know the importance of proper dress, but congressmen seldom do. I once attended a large congressional gathering and didn’t see a single member of Congress with a suit that fit properly.
That’s why shortly after Gerald Ford became president in 1974, GGG contacted the White House and offered the president a made-to-measure suit. Ford was a star athlete with a great physique and had proudly ser
ved in the navy during World War II. His tenure as a congressman, however, had made him a lazy dresser. GGG sent a man to the White House to measure the president, and I started making his suits.
I’d been working late at the factory when two large, serious-looking men in suits rushed up behind me and brusquely escorted me to a vacant storage room. “Excuse me,” I said tersely. “Hands off! I was liberated from the Germans! Who are you?” One of the men flashed a badge.
“We’re Secret Service, sir.”
“But you guys are acting like SS.”
“We apologize. We have an important, classified task for the president.”
One of the agents pulled out two large rectangular plates made of an unfamiliar material. He rapped the plate with his knuckles. “We can protect the president from the back but not from the front. These are specially designed bulletproof plates. We need you to construct two special vests to fit the president. One of the vests needs to be able to break away quickly and needs pockets to hold and hide these plates. The other needs to be an exact copy that he can change into without anyone knowing the difference.”
“What kind of material is this?” I asked.
“We can’t say. We also can’t leave these with you, so we need you to take all your measurements right now.” I measured each plate. They were identical in size and thickness.
“How long do you think it will take to construct the vests?” they asked.
“I don’t know . . . a few days, maybe?”
“That’s fine. Thank you for your time,” one of the agents said.
I made the bulletproof vest with concealed Velcro straps so President Ford could quickly remove it and slip on the traditional one. I cut two pieces of cardboard the size of the bulletproof plates and slid them into the hidden pockets before sliding the vest onto a sizing mannequin. The vest lay flat against the chest.
President Ford survived two assassination attempts. On September 5, 1975, Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme, a follower of the cult leader Charles Manson, was stopped as she aimed a gun at the president. Seventeen days later, a San Francisco radical named Sara Jane Moore fired a shot at Ford from across the street, missing him by several feet. Had either woman’s bullet found its target, the results might well have been fatal. President Ford wasn’t wearing the bulletproof vest I designed for him either time.
Donna Karan dressed the first lady when President and Mrs. Clinton entered the White House. Before long, Mrs. Clinton asked Donna for help dressing the president. In particular, the president needed tails for the upcoming Gridiron Club dinner with the elite of the Washington press. Donna contacted Jay, and we went to work.
President Clinton appreciated the roomy comfort and softness of the drape-shaped crepe suits we created. Donna told him that he needed to have me come to the White House to take a thorough measurement so we could begin building him a proper presidential wardrobe. Originally, I was to have a private breakfast with the president and the first lady, but when Mrs. Clinton’s father suffered a stroke, she understandably had to cancel the breakfast and left.
We moved straight to the fitting. An aide ushered me up to President and Mrs. Clinton’s bedroom. “Wait here. The president should be coming any minute,” he said before leaving me behind with the personal valet who was in charge of setting out Mr. Clinton’s clothes each day. I looked around the beautifully appointed bedroom and soaked in the moment. I noticed some books on a shelf and walked over to read the titles.
I can’t believe this, I thought, running my fingers along the book spines. You are actually standing in the private bedroom of the president of the United States.
I’d always heard that the first time you visit the White House, the weight of the history that has been made within those walls impresses itself on you. That was truer for me than most. The decisions made in that White House were the decisions that saved my life.
Still, I had a job to do. If I was to build a wardrobe fit for a president, I needed to know what I was working with. So I did the only thing that seemed logical: I walked to his closet and opened the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes. A couple of short leather jackets, more jogging suits than any man needs to own, a ratty old overcoat so ugly I was tempted to throw it away on the spot, and a couple of average, off-the-rack suits. “These are really the president’s clothes?” I exclaimed incredulously to the dresser.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
I knew the Clintons had arrived at the White House with modest means. But this had to be one of the most pathetic presidential wardrobes in American history. I had my work cut out for me. I shut the president’s closet and waited for him to arrive. When he entered, I felt flushed and nervous. “Hey there, Martin. Sorry to keep you waiting so long. We were just wrapping up my press conference,” said President Clinton in his syrupy Arkansas accent.
“No problem. No problem,” I said while shaking his hand.
“You come highly recommended. Donna says you’re the best.”
I was so nervous and flustered I didn’t respond to what he’d just said. “How do you feel being president?” I blurted out. He chuckled. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Is that a stupid question? I’ve made suits for presidents before, but I’m just so excited to meet you.” He laughed and smiled some more, and I kept rambling. “I know I will never be a president, because I wasn’t born here.” I couldn’t believe the silliness floating out of my mouth.
The president saved me. “I don’t think that’s a stupid question. I think it’s a great question,” he said graciously. “It’s a tremendous honor. I’m still getting the hang of it myself.”
We made some more small talk and finally turned to fashion. “Let me show you what I’m wearing right now,” he said, walking to his closet. I braced myself and tried not to make a face. “What do you think?” he asked. It took everything in me not to burst out laughing. This was, after all, the president of the United States of America.
“Mr. President, what I think is that it’s time we give you a presidential wardrobe,” I said. “I know you like comfortable clothes. But these things won’t do. We have to build a proper and fitting look now that you’re the president. Don’t you worry. I’m going to fix you up.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’m going to give you Donna’s comfort with a presidential look. Now let’s talk about tuxedos. Why don’t you like tails?”
“Well, it’s not that I don’t like them. I’ve just never worn them—and I’m not sure I really know how.”
“So you’ve never owned a full dress tuxedo in all your life? Not even when you were the governor of Arkansas?”
“No.”
“Okay. I will teach you how to wear tails, tie a bow tie—everything.”
I spent half an hour measuring all around the president to get the twenty-seven precise measurements I needed to craft a true custom suit. “I didn’t realize it took this much measuring to make a suit,” he said.
“It doesn’t for the kind of suits you’ve been wearing. But when you put my suits on, you’ll see and feel the difference.”
“Martin, someone told me you used to make suits for President Eisenhower. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. He liberated me from Buchenwald. Then I made suits for him.”
“Wow, that’s great. And what’s this about you putting notes in his jacket or something?”
“You see, at that time, I was unhappy about our policy on the Suez Canal Crisis. So I wrote him little notes and stuffed them into his pockets every time I made him a new suit.” The president laughed at the recollection. “Mr. President, let me ask you something. Do you watch the talking heads on television?”
“Of course.”
“The television shows everything—how the jacket sits, where the collar rests, how everything fits. There isn’t a man in my industry who wouldn’t give his right arm to be me right now. But if you don’t wear these suits right, you’re going to ruin my reputation.”
“I won’t let you down,”
he said laughing.
“I’m going to show you how to adjust the vest, where the pants should rise, what to do to adjust suspenders to make your pants height appropriate—all of it.”
After I finished taking the president’s measurements, we spent the rest of the hour going through proper white-tie presentation so he would be ready for the upcoming Gridiron Club gala. As I was gathering my things to go, the president suggested we take a few pictures together. “I can sign the photos and send them to you,” he said.
“That sounds great, Mr. President. But my train leaves soon and I want to get back today to start working on your suits.”
“It won’t take but just a minute,” he said, looking around. “Let’s see, we don’t seem to have a White House photographer around.” A kid entered the room.
“I brought a camera, Mr. President,” I said, holding it up. “We can have the kid over there take the picture.” President Clinton howled with laughter. The boy laughed too. I had no idea what was so funny.
We huddled up and the boy snapped the photo, then handed me the camera.
“Thank you for taking our picture,” I said.
“Honored to do it, Mr. Greenfield,” the boy said. “Nice to meet you. I’m George. George Stephanopoulos.” Several months later I learned this Stephanopoulos fellow was a senior advisor to the president. What did I know? He looked like a little kid. I thought he was a White House page or something.
“Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you for bringing me here,” I said with a tear in my eye. We shook hands a final time and I started walking toward Clinton’s door.
“Martin . . . Hey listen, if you ever have something you want to talk to me about, you don’t need to stuff notes in my pockets. I’ll give you my fax number,” he said with a smile. As it turned out, I used that fax number more than once. I sent him instructions on how to tie a bow tie.
Measure of a Man Page 15
