A Spring Tan (2020). Cut paper. From the book Barefoot and Other Stories, available at Amazon Books. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.
It was his first tan suit. A rich guy’s suit, because it wasn’t black or navy blue. If a guy could only swing one suit, he’d buy black or navy, so he could wear it to both weddings and funerals. Black or navy was a safe buy, tan was something else. Tan was a little escape from the mundane, a little step away from safety. It also meant a little more dry cleaning and home pressing. No matter, a guy with a tan suit could afford a splurge or two. He, after all, had purchased something to wear because he wanted to, not because he had to. Indeed, while the other guys dusted off the dark suits for wakes, he might throw his lightweight tan suit on over a tee shirt just for a walk. He might further find occasion to sport it about with a scarf over brunch. Professionally, he might add a repp tie and head to court on a spring afternoon where he would stand out like a tulip in a fallow garden box.
Back then, when everyone wore suits all of the time, differentiation was difficult. Variations on the theme became the vehicle for standing out. He stood in the mirror adjusting his lapel, but saw himself prancing down the pavement, a picture of noblesse oblige and elegance, a small vignette of happiness. It was the way he would eternally see himself in that suit. Memory has a way of perpetuating its images, even those only imagined.
Whites (2022). Cut paper and acrylic paint. From the book Barefoot and Other Stories, available at Amazon Books. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.
People in the city started to use the word “fresh” to describe stylish clothing long after he associated the word with with a certain outfit. The “Whites”, or specifically, a white linen suit, were something he craved to feel on his body just after the first of the year, when the velvets of the holidays had passed, and he was beginning to grow weary of his heavy tweeds. The climate was too cold to jump start the fashion season, pre-Easter Glamour Don’ts column aside, so he’d wait in anticipation for the first really warm day, even if that day landed in June. As a bonus for waiting, perhaps he’d have a bit of color on his face by then as well. When the day came, sunny and bright, the prospect of the glory of the lightness of it all sometimes interfered with his sleep the night before. That aside, there were some practical problems that popped up during the first wearing each year. The streets were often still dirty from a winter of snow and ice abatement, mixed with the oily droppings of vehicular traffic. Salt was often still present at corners, and without a hard and warm rain, the grey dust of the pavements could puff up with each footfall. The Armani break of trouser legs sometimes allowed the hems to brush too close to the gunk underfoot. The need for scrubbing was evident with disrobing. Also, the weather was especially unreliable in spring, where a sunny day could devolve into rain, melting the form of his Whites into a pasty cling. With that often came a terrible cold front, against which the light as air garments provided little defense.
Still, he soldiered on with this ritual of first wearing, sometimes making small compensations, like an umbrella in the car, or a raincoat at the ready, but mostly he took his chances, as one does with the things one loves.
The lightness and freedom of it all, the breezy billow of it, the feeling of release after the invernal bundling, all of this, in a simplistic, but practical way, made him feel a bit hopeful, and sometimes that is enough for a late April morning.
Saturday Night (2020). Acrylic on cut paper. From my book Barefoot and Other Stories, available at Amazon Books. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.
After he left from the fitting he was struck with euphoric anticipation – he couldn’t wait to go back for the thing, to walk out with the vinyl bag over his shoulder, to know it was his. The formal wear, the elegant option, the great equalizer that made all men look well – benvestiti, they said in Italian, would now be his option. He’d worn plenty of rented sacks to weddings and proms, but this one was his to keep, made for his uncommon build, and it was a beaut. If black could be creamy then that’s what the aerated wool fabric was, fitted with an elegant drape that gave depth to the dark luxuriousness. The satin lapels were shawl shaped, after pictures he’d seen from the 50’s, and they sloped to covered buttons, inside and out, to a single-set, double-breasted closure. The pants had satin side-seam stripes and a slight break, under which he’d wear a pair of satin slippers, woven for flexible comfort and a bit of hand-hewn counter balance to the seamless presentation above. He’d purchased a set of mother of pearl studs and cuff links to secure a starched white pleated shirt, and would unite the collars with a hand tied satin bow, unlined and big, so as to hang with an elegant fall.
The first Saturday night arrived quickly, and he dressed with deliberate devotion. He had a video tape of a Frank Sinatra special that he played loud for the vibe and the camaraderie – another guy in the room, in uniform. He hopped about, belting out harmonies to lines in the choruses. Luck Be a Lady came on as he was tying the bow. Perfect.
He skipped out into a gorgeous night, twilight, actually, and walked to the Four Seasons. He could feel the give of his woven shoes, the embrace of his cummerbund, a slight breeze in his pomaded hair. He’d park himself at the bar, he thought, and have a Manhattan or two, maybe coffee later. As he turned the corner onto Rush Street, the sun set and turned the buildings blue. He was still moving to the swing rhythm to which he’d dressed, jauntily, unabashed for a bit, and then a moment came when he felt a twinge of guilt, or shame really, and this careless little display of selfishness. He’d need to make this pass. He could join the Peace Corps or bring a bag of food to the depository tomorrow. He stopped at the corner and mumbled to himself, Don’t forget who you are – just a mug in a nicer suit is all…
The doorman, spotting him, held wide the doors. “Looking sharp tonight, Sir,” he said. As he entered the conditioned air Under my Skin was playing on the lobby sound system. Perfect.
He made his way up to the bar, took a seat, ordered, and waited for nothing to happen, which was okay, because nothing happening is okay if one is in a tux, in the night, in the beautiful part of the city. The journey to get there was what mattered – the dressing and the walking, the freedom to do all that, unfettered by viruses or violence or responsibility. The fleeting moment of safety and indulgence, the sweet morsel in the mix of life’s roughage, is what he will write about twenty years later, in an office under quarantine, in a time of angst.
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