"I WANT to build a great raincoat," Joseph Abboud says to his design team. The setting is Abboud's twenty-seventh-floor office-studio on Fifth Avenue, and none of the floating company of four or five young men and women--bright, energetic, alive to the shades of Abboud's mood--who flit in and out of the meeting seem to find the statement remarkable. It's what they expect from Abboud, forty-four, an internationally known men's (and lately women's) fashion designer. He uses an argot of ambition rarely seen in interviews with artists or writers or filmmakers, who shrink from using the G-word about the products of their hands or hearts or eyes. Earlier, in an interview in his small, sample-strewn office, Abboud boasted proudly if mixaphorically, "We changed the face of neckwear," speaking of the earth-toned, intricately patterned ties whose designs he sketches insatiably--in doodles while he talks on the phone, in notebooks on long flights, and on the dissolving surfaces of his dreams. "Let's stay on the silk issue," Abboud says, as the raincoat meeting threatens to stray into wool. At another juncture: "Let's save that for the trouser discussion." In Joseph Abboud's world silk is an issue and trousers achieve the dignity of discussion.
Coming soon to a select group of stores across the country--"Fifty or sixty doors," Abboud says, in retail-speak--will be Abboud's "American Soft" collection of men's wear, a new look that he predicts will define "the way men will want to dress five or ten years down the road." Abboud is not alone on that road. Italian designers like Zegna and Armani pioneered the soft look, and the Americans Donna Karan and Calvin Klein are also going soft. This trend and Abboud's track record in the market argue that he may be right about what men will be wearing in the early 2000s. He has had his own label for nearly ten years; before that he designed for Ralph Lauren; before that he sold and bought clothes for Louis, Boston, the Tiffany of clothiers. The psychosexual reverberations of the rubric are unfortunate, though, for men's wear. Will future historians of this fin de siècle seize on "American Soft" as a text for our time? Abboud might have been wiser to run that one by the boys on Madison Avenue.
The clothes themselves, to quote from DNR, a men's fashion magazine, are a wearer-friendly mixture of "crepey" and "drapey" wools and blends "devoid of any drop-dead bold patterns." They have to a marked degree what one of Abboud's fellow Bostonians, the art historian and collector Bernard Berenson, called "tactile values"--they want to be held, felt, touched. They are meant to be worn mixed and matched--suit coats as sport jackets, suit trousers as slacks--in a way that is familiar to women but not to men. Traditionally men have had two wardrobes, one for the workweek, the other for the weekend, although most men, of course, don't regard the mistakes cluttering their closets as anything so grand as a wardrobe. Like the great Italians, Abboud designs for the narrow band of customers--one percent of all buyers--who are willing to spend $500 or more for a suit, and who make up the new world market in designer-label men's clothes. Abboud may be the sole graduate of Roslindale High School in that one percent.
BORN in Boston's polyglot South End to first-generation Lebanese-American parents, Abboud had an all-Boston boyhood, pedaling a swan boat in the Public Garden as his summer job and working for a clothier as firmly identified with the city as the sacred cod. At Roslindale High, where he played football and ran track, he was voted best-dressed in his senior class ("I always loved clothes"). His first after-school job was as a salesman with Anderson-Little, where today you can still buy a suit for $100--about the price of an Abboud shirt. Brainy and hardworking, he won a scholarship to the newly established University of Massachusetts at Boston, whose downtown campus was a short walk from his South End home and was even closer to the smart clothing shops of the Back Bay, where Abboud would window-shop and indulge the dream of his destiny.
One day, on a vagrant impulse, and not answering an ad, he walked into Louis, Boston, the city's poshest clothing store, and asked for a job. For a freshman of limited means, a kid who worked to help support his family, this took guts. To most locals, Louis, Boston was an intimidating place, a citadel of swank in a city whose dress code owed more to Cotton Mather than to Yves Saint Laurent. Yet Abboud's classmates at Roslindale High had not voted him best-dressed for nothing. Slim, with rugged and vaguely Continental good looks, he wore clothes well and was well-spoken and personable enough to seem a plausible salesman. Courtesy of Louis's layaway plan, Abboud was now the best-dressed student at U Mass-Boston.
In truth, that was no strenuous distinction. This was, after all, the late 1960s, the era of tie-dyed shirts, patched jeans, fashion by Army surplus. Attending the same university a few years earlier, I went to classes with my employer's name, "W. T. Byrns Motor Express," stitched in white across the pocket of my blue work shirt, and no one thought me odd--at least not on that account. Abboud, who went directly to work from school, wore a coat and tie. "Half the kids thought I was a professor," he says. In fact he sold clothes to one of his professors. He had the salesman's gift for filling but not drowning silences, and in working at Louis, a mecca for the discriminating and well-heeled buyer, he had the perfect job for someone mad about clothes. On one of his first Saturdays at Louis he sold a customer $2,600 worth of shirts and ties. "And this was in 1969!" he exclaims.