A Small Rebel Act
On commissioning a bespoke suit and the quiet cost of preserving who you are.
I recently commissioned the second bespoke suit of my life. A navy indigo linen double-breasted, made from the famous European linen bunch — Art du Lin by Solbiati, one of the best mills to offer in the linen category.
And once again — this suit is going to be one that fails to function as a suit, just like the first one. A tan-cream cotton seersucker, single-breasted.
I do not know why I love the idea of making a tailored bespoke piece — one that reflects the taste and worldview of my own, in the form of a suit — and having it be rebellious. Existing outside the expectation that society places on the function of it. But that, perhaps, is the thrill.
Imagine a navy suit that fails to be a navy suit. One that you cannot wear to the business meeting, the boardroom, the professional setting — unless you are the chairman, working in the tech sector, or holding enough leverage in the room that your decision affects the whole agenda.
This double-breasted suit, made of Solbiati Art du Lin: the jacket is unstructured, unlined, 6x1 configuration, low buttoning stance. The trousers are full-cut, wide leg opening, double reverse pleated, cuffed hem. Known, in effect, as a flowing with the wind suit. Beautifully drapes, without any rigidity. A suit to be lived in.
Very Richard Gere in his breakthrough film — American Gigolo (1980).
But why am I so obsessed with the suit?
To be honest, even I — who consider myself a man deeply devoted to sartorial matters, a connoisseur, in and out of the industry — I rarely wear a full suit anymore. Perhaps it is the fact that I am living in Bangkok now. But even in Milan earlier this year, I also preferred odd jacket and odd trousers.
So why do I keep dreaming of, imagining, and desiring the experience —
Of selecting fabric.
Of talking with the clothier.
Of choosing the details of the garment.
Of the feeling of a measuring tape around my body —
Knowing that the piece will be mine, and mine alone?
And then there is the recent Ralph Lauren Purple Label & Polo Spring/Summer 2027 menswear collection — the talk of the town, and the thing that stormed my social media feed. I found myself thinking out loud: “God, these models look so good.”
Even after the hundred or so times that Ralph Lauren — both as a brand and as an individual — has portrayed this aesthetic.
The dinner jacket worn with cream trousers. A tailored jacket paired with shorts and fisherman sandals. Even the slim-fit Polo-line pinstripe suits that I know, for sure, only look good on a specific type of body.
That runway show reminded me of why I fell in love with tailoring in the first place.
They are a reminder of where I have come from — and of how I can become the person I want to be.
It reminds me of the first time I bought a very poor-quality off-the-rack navy suit for $100, and felt like Sean Connery in From Russia With Love — even though the fit was completely off.
The first time I went to a local tailor and commissioned a linen, high-waisted, double forward-pleated pair of trousers — even though the resulting silhouette was a disaster, and I basically wasted the $250. Because once my knowledge and taste had developed enough to realise what my ideal silhouette actually looked like, I could not bear to look at the mirror.
And I guess — this is the reason.
Even though practically, culturally, and realistically, the modern world dictates that suits no longer need to be worn in daily life. Even though commissioning one — which certainly costs some money — will likely mean the piece hangs in the closet more than it is worn.
Though I always try to come up with creative ways to wear it out as often as possible.
It is like a guilty pleasure, I think.
One that logically is not enough to justify.
But that serves as an emotional anchor. As identity reinforcement. Something that happens to be worn — even though it is worn less often than a pair of vintage Brooks Brothers wool trousers I bought for $15, which turned out to be the garment I wear almost daily.