Lifestyle
Black Style, Made to Measure
Once all the spilled champagne has been mopped up from this year’s Met Gala, the exhibition that it’s toasting, “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style,” will examine Black dandies, bespoke suiting and the Black men who so often set the standard of what it means to be stylish.
Black fashion lovers may feel the celebration is long overdue, but the show provides an opportunity to consider all that “tailoring” can mean — especially to Black people in the United States.
Ahead of the Costume Institute show, Black craftspeople across the country — a milliner in South Carolina, men’s tailors in Chicago, a jeweler in Los Angeles — reflected on the power and joy that can be found in tailoring.
Custom Clothiers
Christopher Brackenridge and Milton Latrell
Two sons of seamstresses help men look their best at Agriculture, a boutique in Chicago.
Photographs and video by Nolis Anderson for The New York Times
“We’d both seen how confident the clients of our moms became when they wore custom clothing. They had confidence. They walked a certain way. Their posture changed. And we was like, ‘If that makes a Black man feel good, why not be a part of that?’” — Milton Latrell
The boutique’s clients include famous Black actors, pastors and musicians, as well as local students getting outfitted for prom.
Mr. Brackenridge said he especially loved working on pieces that clients have had in their families for generations and finding new ways of updating them so they feel modern. A 60-year-old jacket that once belonged to a client’s grandfather was a particular highlight.
“I love when a client is able to come in and bring a piece that their grandfather may have worn and we are able to update that style to now.” — Christopher Brackenridge
“We like to put things like hidden watch pockets and coin pockets” for a little surprise, Mr. Latrell said.
“When you’re wearing something custom or just customized to you, you feel debonair — extraordinary, even — like you can accomplish anything,” said Milton Latrell, co-founder of Agriculture, a Chicago boutique specializing in custom suiting and styling for men.
For many Black people, having a tailor is not an extravagance, but a necessity. The right tailor can take an ill-fitting pair of pants and make them flatter every contour of the body. The right tailor can transform scraps of fabric into a treasured dress, skirt or jacket — all while leaving customers looking and feeling their best. And when customers feel their best, they exude a swagger and confidence that feels like a natural part of being Black.
Tailor
Cheryl A. Lofton
A third-generation tailor in Washington initially wanted nothing to do with the family business.
“My niche in the business was alterations. I wanted to make sure that women knew that they could come in and have the same treatment that the men got in a tailoring business.”
Scissors originally belonging to JC Lofton, Ms. Lofton’s grandfather who started the business in 1939. Black Tailors
J.C. Lofton, left, in Washington D.C. in the 1940s, who founded Lofton Custom Tailoring in 1939.
“My mom dressed up to go to the grocery store. She did not go out of this house without a nice, well-fitted dress, her makeup done, and her high-heeled shoes. Never, ever did my mom go out without being dressed up, as did all of the grown-ups in our family. They were always well dressed.”
Cheryl A. Lofton and her grandfather, Joe Cephus (J.C.) in the 1970’s.
Like Ms. Lofton, I have family in the business. For most of my own childhood my mother was a tailor, making wedding gowns, bridesmaid dresses and suits in a room in the back of our house in Harare, Zimbabwe. Her customers, a mix of friends, family and strangers, always seemed to leave her de facto studio feeling joyful. It was in that back room that I found an affinity for tulle and feathers, and learned just how special clothes made just for you could make you feel.
When my family arrived in the United States, my mother stopped sewing professionally, but she always made time to ensure that my clothes — most of which were thrifted or hand-me-downs donated by our new community — felt one of a kind. She would swap out a plain black button for a fun mismatched pink one, extend a hem on pants that were a tad too short, use extra fabric on a skirt that was too big to create pleats and ruching. Even when my clothes weren’t new, they felt special.
Costumer
Laron Nelson
The owner of Opulent Designs in New Orleans says his goal is to make outfits that are “more costume than fashion.”
Photographs and video by Camille Lenain for The New York Times
“I use a lot of sequined fabrics — a lot of velvet, satins, lamés, lace, brocade, rhinestone fabrics — because for Mardi Gras, everything is all about the glitter and the shine. The glitz.”
Locally, Mr. Nelson is best known for his custom wire working and feather collars, worn by participants in New Orleans’s famed second lines and pageants.
“I started creating it so I wouldn’t have to spend the type of money it cost to buy from other people,” Mr. Nelson said.
Mr. Nelson’s mother and sister help with the business, whose studio is in the Gentilly neighborhood of New Orleans.
“A lot of men are deterred from wearing what they want to wear because they may feel like something is not masculine. But my thing is, if you’re masculine, it doesn’t matter who you are, what you are and what you wear.”
For Mr. Nelson, more is more.
At 18, I moved to Rome for school, and within days of arriving, found myself wandering through the Termini neighborhood in search of a barber and a tailor. I was tight on cash, but I wouldn’t be caught in clothes that were too tight or too loose. I found a student tailor who shared a studio space with other young designers.
Years later, as a graduate student in New York, I often hauled a bag of thrifted clothes to a Harlem dry cleaner for alterations. The store was next to my barbershop and a few blocks away from the market where I bought fabric for scarves and head wraps — which, of course, was walking distance from my cobbler. In my late 20s in Atlanta, I made sure to find a tailor, a barber and a jeweler to repair my most beloved pieces before I signed an apartment lease.
Jewelry Designer
Maggi Simpkins
A Los Angeles artist who doesn’t want to make earrings or bracelets “just for the sake of making pretty things.”
Photographs and video by Bethany Mollenkof for The New York Times
“We’re creating these pieces with the intention that they’ll be passed down throughout generations and continue to tell the stories of the people that once wore these pieces.”
“I used to have a locket growing up and I loved it and I thought it was magic because you would open up and there’d be a little photo inside of it,” Ms. Simpkins said, “but I never understood why the photos were hidden.”
“My earliest memory of jewelry is my mom going through her jewelry box and taking out pieces and telling me stories about ‘Your grandfather gave this to your grandmother on their 25th wedding anniversary,’ or ‘Your grandfather got this when he was 16 years old during communion.’ So I grew up hearing stories about family members that were no longer alive.”
Ms. Simpkins in her Los Angeles studio.
Although Ms. Simpkins makes all kinds of jewelry, she’s best known for her nontraditional engagement rings.
“From an early age, jewelry was just magic to me because it had the ability to hold these stories from past loved ones.”
You can find Black artisans almost anywhere: on main streets in the bustling part of town, or tucked away in studios in basements, attics, spare bedrooms or even garages. In these spaces, they are constantly experimenting and creating.
I first met Natalie Simmons, a hat maker born and raised in Charleston, S.C., at her store in the West Ashley district of the city in 2019. I explained to her that I was in town for a wedding that called for a hat, but I didn’t know what to get. Days later, she handed me a fascinator with a long black and white feather.
Milliner
Natalie Simmons
A hat maker in Charleston, S.C., who sources materials from Italy and parts of Africa.
Photographs and video by Donaven Doughty for The New York Times
Molds and a measuring tool that Ms. Simmons uses to make all types of hats: fedoras, cloches, boaters, bowlers, sun hats and more.
“My grandmother had hats in every color. If you walked into her closet, her closet was just lined with hat boxes. There were hat boxes up on the shelves. There were hat boxes on the floor. They were just her coveted thing. She had a hat that matched every outfit. She had gloves and handbags, but the hats were something to be cherished.”
“We don’t just take a hat off the rack and just plop it down on our heads,” Ms. Simmons said. “We add a curious little tilt or a feather, or add a pin, or a special detail that just makes it stand out.”
“A hat that perfectly fits your face and fits the structure of your body can bring something to life. It’s the one thing that can really make an outfit stand out and really tell a story.”
In her Charleston studio, Ms. Simmons makes custom hats in addition to restoring older ones.
Designers shared similar early memories of falling in love with their craft at home, where they were surrounded by moms, aunts and grandmothers. Their work allows them to continue to tell their family’s stories.
Western Wear Designer
Dymond Taylor
Dating a cowboy opened her eyes to an opportunity in Houston.
Photographs by Arturo Olmos for The New York Times
“It’s really easy to design for our people because they don’t want to look like anybody else.”
Ms. Taylor loves to design with leather, denim and — of course — fringe.
“When I started this brand, I wasn’t seeing what I wanted in stores. We always set the trends. We always create uniqueness. It’s just deeply rooted in us to do that.”
Sometime around her rodeo-going days, Ms. Taylor realized that the disproportionately white images of cowboys and western life that she encountered weren’t reflective of what she knew to be cowboy culture and history. B Stone was born out of that frustration.
“People might not instantly associate Western wear with suiting and tailoring, but when you go back to the root of it, Western wear has always been presented as a suit — the pant, the hat, the boot and the guitar.”
Ms. Taylor describes her brand as melding “cowboy style and urban style, mixing streetwear with country.”
In shops and studios scattered across the country, the American designers and tailors I spoke with represented exactly what this year’s Met exhibition and gala hope to honor. Each one takes some element of an outfit and elevates it, empowering their Black clients and celebrating their collective history in the process.
Julia Demaree Nikhinson/AP
A federal judge has blocked President Trump from adding his name to the Kennedy Center, saying that the Washington, D.C. arts complex was named for the late president John F. Kennedy. In a ruling on Friday, the judge also temporarily blocked the administration from closing the Kennedy Center for a planned two-year renovation that was slated to begin in July.
U.S. District Court Judge Christopher Cooper wrote in his ruling that: “The Kennedy Center’s organic statute makes crystal clear that the Center is to be named for President Kennedy, and it cannot bear any other formal name or public memorial based on the Board’s unilateral say-so. Congress gave the Kennedy Center its name, and only Congress can change it.”
A Kennedy Center spokesperson told NPR in an email Friday afternoon that it will appeal the decision. Roma Daravi, vice president of public relations for the complex, wrote: “We will review the decision carefully though the reality remains — the Center requires an urgent and significant restoration – a truth that even the plaintiff acknowledges. With $257 million secured by President Trump and approved by Congress, the resources are in place and we remain committed to pursuing every lawful avenue to ensure the Trump Kennedy Center is restored as a national cultural landmark for all Americans to enjoy.”
NPR has requested comment from the White House, but did not receive an immediate reply.
As part of his ruling, Judge Cooper ordered that all signage and online materials referring to the “Donald J. Trump and John F. Kennedy Memorial Center for the Performing Arts,” the “Trump Kennedy Center,” or anything similar must be removed within 14 days.
The judge also blocked, for now, plans to close the Kennedy Center for two years of renovations. Trump and the center’s current voting board members – all of whom were selected by the president, who also became chairman of the center last year – had planned to start the renovations in early July, just after the 250th anniversary celebrations. In his 94-page ruling, Judge Cooper called the renovation plans “murky,” and wrote: “None of the board members had sufficient information in advance of the March 16 meeting to make a well-considered decision to close the center.” The center has been winding down its programming and has already dismissed most of its programming staff.
Referring to a Truth Social post written by President Trump in February, the judge also wrote: “There was no ‘one year review of the Trump Kennedy Center, that has taken place with Contractors, Musical Experts, Art Institutions, and other Advisors and Consultants, deciding between’ complete and partial closure, as President Trump claimed.”
Cooper’s ruling resulted from a lawsuit filed in March by Rep. Joyce Beatty of Ohio, an ex-officio member of the Kennedy Center board whose voting rights there were stripped last year.
The ruling does not prevent the Kennedy Center’s board from a future closure, but the judge said that it should do so only after the board has “sufficient information to make a considered, independent decision, taking account of its obligation to both maintain and operate a premiere arts venue and its solemn duty to memorialize a fallen President.”
Three years after my second divorce, with the help of a dating app, I went on 53 first dates in one summer. Fifty-three times, I put on my first-date uniform (nice but not trying too hard), flat-ironed my hair and texted my date itinerary to my friend Karen to make it easier for the FBI to track my whereabouts just in case this was the internet date that finally went wrong.
I had a system. The system involved a spreadsheet. I kept track of what I wore and what stories we shared to avoid repeating myself in case there was a second or third date. There were exploratory follow-up dates, but it usually only took one to know.
The coffees and lunches and dinners of that season flicker in my mind like a rom-com video montage. There were some average dates, plenty of nice-guy, zero-chemistry dates, but a few stand out.
Here are the notables.
There was the extremely tall, minor league baseball player I met at BJ’s in Burbank. He said no more than four words to me the entire meal, but managed to chat up our waitress. I believe he walked me to my car and went back for her number.
The quiet and irritable TV editor I met at Guelaguetza on Olympic Boulevard. We ordered the chicken mole and chapulines. During the meal, he had a panic attack and excused himself to call his therapist. He actually told me this.
The experimental-video director with the white faux hawk I met at Go Get Em Tiger in East Hollywood. He spent the date in an hourlong monologue about his ex-wife Julia, stopping only to show me many, many photos of Julia.
A young man, originally from Phoenix, asked to meet at Soot Bull Jip on 8th Street. A struggling writer-actor-production assistant, he confided that he had looked up my name on Internet Movie Database and noticed that I was a producer. He then proceeded to pitch me an animated children’s show about singing giraffes. He also asked for a ride to Vons. I declined both.
The screenwriter I met at République who, based on his startling non-resemblance to his photo, had obviously posted a picture of someone else on his profile. He brought me three mixed CDs of music based on what he “knew” I would like. It was all Radiohead and Elliott Smith. I adjusted my dating profile because I was apparently coming off as depressed.
There was the nervous and uptight English tutor, with a script in turn-around and a famous roommate, that I met at a Starbucks in Koreatown. This guy corrected my grammar within the first five minutes of our introduction. Then, he proceeded to inform me that rather than be put off by this, I should be grateful for the new information so I could fix my error and not appear to be uneducated.
The trendy, bearded sports photographer I met for a late-night dinner at Fred 62 in Los Feliz. I had high hopes for this guy, and we made plans for a second date. But then things started unraveling once we realized I had already dated his younger brother.
There was also the suave (Hand kiss? Really?) and extremely tan French tennis pro I crossed La Cienega Boulevard for and met for lunch at Thai Vegan in Santa Monica. He was on a nonstop series of calls on his cellphone during the entire meal and then asked for a second date. I said, “Non, merci.”
When describing these guys to Karen, I used their identifying traits to label them. (Stalker Creep. Dude Looks Like a Lady. Mom Jeans Guy.) Like an FNG in Vietnam, it was better not to learn their names.
Due to a story he had shared with me via email, date No. 53 was identified as Naked Drummer. I tried to reserve judgment. Before Naked Drummer came to meet me for our first date, he called at the last minute and said the following:
“I want to recap. I just turned 30. I am currently living with my mother. I play guitar in an alternative folk band. I have a semi-crappy temp job at Disney with no benefits. I drive a green ’97 Plymouth Grand Voyager minivan that smells like weed. If you would like to change your mind about this whole dinner thing, now is your chance.” He described himself as tall, dark and tall.
For some reason, I broke many of my first date “safety rules” with Naked Drummer. I gave him my address. I let him pick me up. When he came to get me, I let him into my apartment. We went for dinner at Noshi Sushi on Beverly Boulevard. None of that is prudent behavior, and I do not recommend any of it except the chu toro.
Naked Drummer was a funny, smart, nice Jewish boy who had been touring in bands in that Grand Voyager since college graduation. On the first date, we bonded over takuwan rolls and our histories as teenage goths. My goth uniform included black Maybelline eyeliner I used a lighter to heat the tip with before application. His goth uniform included an olive-green trench coat he borrowed from his mom. We were a match made in Joy Division heaven. He confided he was an Insane Clown Posse Juggalo, I intimated I was in the Kiss Army. (We were both lying about those last two.)
Reader, I married him.
The author is a former writer, director and producer for television. She and Mr. Rosenberg live in South Pasadena. She’s on Instagram: @smacksy.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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Poppy Liu drives that change more than pretty much any other character in the film. She plays Jianhu, a garment worker in China who joins the gang and brings with her a bonkers new wrinkle to the story. It’s a role Poppy was made for. She’s made her career playing confident, somewhat unhinged weirdos. She was cast in a lead role in the 2019 sitcom Sunnyside, had other parts on Better Call Saul, The After Party, and Hacks.
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