ON the first day of school in the 10th grade, I showed up wearing white painter’s pants, a jean jacket with the collar up, a bandana in a knotted triangle at the collar and gelled hair with a spiky part. This carefully selected look was meant to show everyone at West Springfield High School that over the summer I had become a seasoned member of the cultural elite. By third period, the bandana had lost its shape, the gel had dried, the collar had uncrisped, and I think I heard someone walking by my locker say the most damning word ever: “Poser.”
In the high school known as New York City, we are all posers. Especially in early September when Fashion Week is in scary full swing, 700-pound issues of Vogue are lobbed around and the season officially kicks into gear with obnoxious musicals, serious films, hyped art events and exclusive restaurant openings. Suddenly everybody must put on their best, hippest, coolest clothes while running around hoping for a Tony, Oscar, Guggie, Obie or the appearance of Kate Hudson in their gastropub to signify that they spent their summer becoming members of the cultural elite and are cool and popular, finally.
Still blissed out from summer, I was so not ready to enter into this annual frenzy, but the Steven Alan Annex was refreshingly free of pressure. Right away I noticed that the mannequins looked like real people, dressed in scarves and wool jackets that appeared mismatched and thrown on. The staff was nice and attitude-free, and the easily recognizable sound of Arcade Fire played through the store.
A selection of women’s clothes in colors of turning leaves lined the walls along the front of the shop, but I headed to the back, where the men’s selections can be found in a grotto of racks and tables.
STEVEN ALAN opened his first store on Wooster Street in 1994, well before the Hipster Age and its relentless focus on the wardrobe of a male anorexic. Basically his clothes take preppy style and make it more fitted, comfortable and less WASPy. He now has five stores in Manhattan and three in Southern California. This Annex carries Steven Alan’s own line, like a bright blue lightweight cardigan, a smart tan rain jacket or a pair of striped pants, along with selections from other lines, all displayed without bravado.
I often found myself making comparisons between the Steven Alan line and the other labels it offers. A thin crew-neck sweater in bright Kelly green from A.P.C. for $360 was on a table near a similar crew neck in blue by Steven Alan for $295. A smooth, architectural zip-up jacket in an olive khaki material from Beauty and Youth ($189) hung by a less streamlined but cheaper olive-green zip-up jacket by Steven Alan ($109).
Two finds I really loved were not Steven Alan designs: a chocolate-colored cotton-cashmere top by V::room ($185) had a thin seam down the sleeves; and a brown Relwen V-neck sweater in merino wool ($148) quietly referenced Ryan O’Neal in “Love Story.”
Some of those offerings are strained. A shiny Moncler quilted down jacket ($750) was frighteningly clubby and would make me look like a mean-faced cokehead from Milan if I wore it out of the store. The trendy Repetto dance shoe, here for $220, and a Generic Man sneaker in a pistachio-color punched leather for $159 would be all the footwear you need for a busy schedule juggling work as a cast member of “A Chorus Line” and part-time clown.
Near the shoes was an indestructible $228 fanny pack as well as a $350 “shoulder bag” that looked more like a dopp kit, available from Porter. Filson bags are piled in a mound in the corner ($345 for a washed duffel, $288 for an unwashed, less distressed version), as well as a large, silver hard-shelled suitcase ($595) from Rimowa. All of them made me wonder if there will ever be some kind of subprime bag crisis when prices will return to normal.
Over all, I was happy with the selection and the range of sizes to choose from. The prevalent trend in New York boutiques is to have but eight hangers with thousand-dollar clothes preciously dangling on them as if they were glistening slices of mink meat. The clothes here are displayed in a cramped, overstuffed way. They seem to say: “Hey, whatever, try it on, maybe you will like it” instead of: “You are not cool, rich or Hugh Dancy. Leave now.”
Shirts, especially, come in an array of patterns and styles. They are stacked in cubbies near the back of the store, and also hang on the racks, wrinkled and unpressed as if they are already preparing for a life crammed in a tiny closet. Steven Alan is worshiped for his shirts — tailored button-downs with little details like reversed seams, twisted plackets and hidden collar buttons — all of them washed to give them their friendly, wearable finish.
I tried on one shirt in putty gray, another in a blue and black plaid, and a lightweight white one gridded with blue lines like graph paper. They all fit but were not overly fitted and had narrow sleeves that rolled up nicely and stayed there. I also found some great black cargo pants with a tight tailored leg and pleated side pockets that were flat and discreet, on sale for only $59.
I fell for the Steven Alan nonstyle. His clothes seem as if they aren’t trying so hard, or maybe in some twisted marketing manipulation, they are trying so hard not to try so hard. Either way it works to his advantage because I bought the plaid shirt ($168), cargo pants and an adorable shirt for my nephew, Ben, who is having his third birthday this week. The shirt is blue, with a fine pinstripe and a quirky breast pocket sewn on the inside ($39). I like to think of this as a talisman for him: Wearing it this fall will ward off anyone ever telling him he is a poser — at least until he turns 5.
referrence:www.sterlingtiffany.com
