“Entry E” is something of a pulp novel, telling a tale of Ivy League life in America that was considered startling on its release in 1958. But for all the adolescent angst and raucous action in this story, there is plenty of mid-century Ivy League style and quiet consideration of the “Ivy Man,” described in knowledgeable detail by the book’s author, Richard Frede, a Yale graduate.
Set in the residence hall Entry E at the fictitious Hayden University (an unconvincing alias for the real Entry E in Timothy Dwight College at Yale, where Frede resided during his time in New Haven), the novel follows Ed Bogard, an average student who becomes aware of an unsavory plan: A group of men in his entry are preparing to drug a visiting college girl over the weekend with grain alcohol and Benzedrine, rendering her defenceless to their advances. Will Bogard speak out, or will he be another example of America’s “silent generation”?
As Bogard wrestles with the typical challenge of discovering himself at college and finding his voice to speak out, there is the introduction of the “Slide Rule” and “Third Person,” imaginary entities that appear at times when Bogard feels most challenged, depressed or conflicted. But it is telling that the most interesting manifestation of his conscience, the Third Person, is a perfectly turned-out handsome man whom Bogard sees for the first time at a country club dance while at prep school:
In his mind Bogard stared at a handsome, patently omniscient paragon of a man; a man who had just stepped out of some mists Bogard had never before noticed in his mind a man dressed in a white dinner jacket and Bermuda shorts and a bow tie of the same brilliant yellow, orange, and red plaid; a man who grinned omnisciently back at Bogard and said, “The plaid of my ancestors, a warm and noble group, both emotional and adventurous, a trait which, I am afraid, you and your friends do not understand.” A man with a horrendously straight and cynical grin; a man who grinned omnisciently back at Bogard and patiently said once again, “Why don’t you go over and ask her for a date.”
Bogard doesn’t get the girl, and this love/hate relationship with the Third Person reaches its fever pitch upon enrolment at college, not least because this was Bogard’s chance to become just as well attired as his imaginary nemesis. (Continue)
Despite the fact that you’re supposed to be learning to think for yourself, college has always been a conformist environment. Those with an excess of individuality may be respected, but are rarely popular.
And even during the heyday of the Ivy League Look, not every student was a perfect example of the style. What became codified and remembered as the look was what the top echelon wore, the nonchalant moneyed types.
In short, the guys who were “shoe.”
What follows is an article entitled “How Shoe Can You Get?” by Russell Lynes, kindly provided by Esquire fashion director Nick Sullivan. In it, Lynes writes:
White Shoe applies primarily to the socially ambitious and the socially smug types who affect a good deal of worldly sophistication, run, ride and drink in rather small cliques, and look in on the second halves of football games when the weather is good. They try so hard not to be collegiate in the rah-rah (or, as they would say, “Midwestern”) sense of the term that they are probably the most “collegiate” types now in college.
Lynes wrote the book “The Tastemakers,” which I highly recommend to those interested in the sociology of taste. Ivy Style wrote about him here. — CC
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How Shoe Can You Get?
By Russell Lynes
Esquire, September 1953
At Yale there is a system for pigeonholing the members of the college community which is based on the word “shoe.” Shoe bears some relation to the word chic, and when you say that a fellow is “terribly shoe” you mean that he is a crumb in the upper social crust of the college, though a more kindly metaphor might occur to you. You talk of a “shoe” fraternity or a “shoe” crowd, for example, but you can also describe a man’s manner of dress as “shoe.” The term derives, as you probably know, from the dirty white bucks which are the standard collegiate footwear (you can buy new ones already dirty in downtown New York to save you the embarrassment of looking as though you hadn’t had them all your life), but the system of pigeonholing by footwear does not stop there. It encompasses the entire community under the terms White Shoe, Brown Shoe, and Black Shoe.
White Shoe applies primarily to the socially ambitious and the socially smug types who affect a good deal of worldly sophistication, run, ride and drink in rather small cliques, and look in on the second halves of football games when the weather is good. They try so hard not to be collegiate in the rah-rah (or, as they would say, “Midwestern”) sense of the term that they are probably the most “collegiate” types now in college. Brown Shoe applies to the general run of those who are socially acceptable but above thinking that it really makes any difference. They constitute the general middle class of the college that overlaps somewhat into both White and Black; their ambition is to be the average citizen raised to the highest power compatible with being a cultured and relaxed gentleman. Black Shoe implies some of the attributes of the “grind” and is applied to those who participate a little too eagerly in seminars, literary teas, and discussions of life, literature, and the pursuit of philosophy. They are in college because they consider it primarily an educational and not a social institution; they mind their own business rather intensely, are probably in love with the girls they will eventually marry, and in many respects appear a good deal more sophisticated and grown up than the White Shoe crowd.
The shoe categories obviously allow for a great deal more precise definition than this, as I have no doubt the first Yale man you meet will tell you. But pleasant as it is under the elms of New Haven, let us move into other groves of academe. We will have to take our “shoes” with us, however; the terminology may not be the same in all the colleges, but we will keep finding men whom the shoes will fit. (Continue)
In his previous columns, Richard Press has shared his memories of the Ivy heyday and his decades at J. Press. This time he shares something he wrote in 1955 while a freshman at Dartmouth. It has the triple importance of being authored at an Ivy League college by a family member of one of the preeminent Ivy clothiers and written at the dawn of the heyday.
Entitled “The Ivy Look,” the article appeared in DART, the school’s humor magazine, and was co-authored with Art Zich, who later became a foreign correspondent for Time-Life and associate editor of Newsweek.
Pictured above is the original artwork that accompanied the story.
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“Who is that fellow in the Ivy League suit?” It’s being whispered on campuses everywhere and not without reason. With the resurgence to conservative dress, people are finding it difficult to tell one friend from another. What’s more, it’s getting so that people can’t even tell themselves from each other. The social implications of this situation are obvious when one considers brushing your teeth, or borrowing a necktie from someone, who, when you return it, turns out to be yourself.
The problem is not a new one, however, as members of the turn-of-century classes will admit once they have admitted they are members of the turn-of-the-century classes. The well-known “Ivy Look” had its beginnings at New Haven in the days when McKinley was president, starting the day McKinley was shot. Students usually purchased their clothing from small, modest shops, and for this reason “Ivy Look” tailors made little or nothing. Gradually, however, there emerged the distinctive, sophisticated attire of the Ivy Leaguer (in many ways similar to the Texas Leaguer, the Bush Leaguer, and the Real Eager but much more distinctive, of course).
The most popular outfit in those days was the custom-tailored suit, so-called because it was the custom to tailor the suit so you couldn’t afford it. The custom-tailored-suit gave way to the ready-made-suit, which in turn gave way, but could be held together with safety-pins. Other popular “Ivy League” numbers are the Summer (summer expensive and summer cheap), the Gasuit (to be worn by people with head colds), and the bridal suite (ten dollars night and breakfast in bed with coffee and rolls).
The first important change in the manner of “Ivy Look” dress after 1900 was the arrival of the “odd jacket” or sports coat, worn with “slacks” so called because of the condition of your wallet after purchasing. The “sport coat” is named after the good sports who were the first to wear it; they were later stoned to death. Today it is not uncommon to see Madison Avenue executives in the same campus tweeds that were popular during their own college days.
There are arguments concerning just what constitutes the “Ivy Look.” The originators are specific. Conversely, the specifiers are original. Carefully nurtured peak is the rule. The coat of the true gentleman must consist of unpadded shoulders, padded wallet, three button notch high lapels, and deep hooks and vents to let in hot and cold air. The back-strap on the trouser back is preferred being superior to the back-strap on the trouser front. The belt should be worn as high as possible, leaving none of the trouser visible above the belt line, let alone the person inside of them. Sox should be supported by garters, while garters should be supported by muscular calves. If muscular calves are not available any form of livestock will do just as well. Shoes should be of sturdy English cut, heavy enough to keep feet out of elements and fast enough to keep the wearer out of reach of the creditors.
Only a few varieties of shirts are permissible, and naturally, those with sleeves are preferred. The rule for college-correctness dictates button-down, round, or English tab. When confronted with the tab, it is always smarter to allow the other fellow to pick it up. The button-down demands a button on the back and pleated backs are mandatory. The wearer who has a pleated back to begin with is thus ahead of the game. The prescribed daytime shirt color is blue on Oxford, bowling on the Green, and drinks on the house. White is proper for evening wear, unless you are spending the evening in the tub.
There is a wide choice in the selection of ties. Although some Ivy Leaguers look down on on challis, a good many challis look down on Ivy Leaguers also. The exquisite foulard is always permissible, coming as it does from the French word which means “artistic fool.” It goes without saying that the hard and fast rule of the Ivy Leaguer is his insistence on the four-in-hand knot. A Windsor knot, according to our sources, is strictly gauche, and should only be worn by gauchos.
Dark colored suits are the usual rule, but a clever blend of light and dark coupled with the right tie and a sheepish grin can often lend the needed sophistication, creating the illusion of correctness. When one feels he is correct enough, he may hand himself in to be marked. Brown is still the most stable color in sport coats, and also in stables.
The cloth put into the finest of the Ivy League suits is invariably imported from the British Isles. Recently the trend has been toward the importing of the British Isles. The cloth is usually produced on the antique spinning wheel of a Scotsman whose ancestors have been weaving for generations as a result of producing antique Scotch.
The “Ivy Look” will be seen throughout the East this fall. The question remains: “Who is the man in the Ivy League suit?” It’s his roommate from Exeter. — RICHARD PRESS & ART ZICH
Contributing writer Christopher Sharp takes us on an epic journey through the 20th century, charting how madras went from obscure resort wear to a national craze during the “guaranteed-to-bleed” days of the Ivy heyday.
If I were to create an Ivy-inspired urban myth, I would spin a tale of how the first Yale man to wear a madras shirt was old Elihu himself and how madras money built Yale.
“While no one knows why preppies are so attracted to madras,” Esquire once wrote, “it is a matter of record that Elihu Yale was once Governor in Madras and included five bolts of the fabric in his initial endowment to the University.” This story was first told in a 1960 Hathaway shirt advertisement and was the product of David Oligivy and his minions of Mad Men. An overly investigative personality might wonder if these five bolts are the ones described as “five pieces of plain muslin” in the History of Yale provided by The Society of Colonial Wars in the State of Connecticut.
Journeying back to the turn of the century, madras in plain and striped varieties was known to the American customer. The 1897 Sears Roebuck & Company catalog list madras shirts for sale, and the New York Times in November 1919 reported a madras shirt shortage.
Esquire reports that madras first appears in the fashion pages in 1937, noting swim trunks being seen in South Hampton, Long Island, and Newport, Rhode Island. Madras was definitely known to the New Haven haberdashers of the time, who sold it as resort wear. One example is madras swim trunks sold at J. Press in 1939. It has been widely believed that Americans visiting the British West Indies at the time brought back this look.
As a resort wear phenomenon, some of the credit can be given to the Bermuda Athletic Association, which invited Ivy League rugby teams to a tournament in 1935. The pilgrimage became so popular that charter flights for students would be booked and advertised in the student newspapers. The students returned to campus with new wardrobe items and a taste for island revelry. LIFE Magazine predicted in 1948 that the students accustomed to coming down over break would return again for their honeymoons.
Instrumental in the spread of resort wear were the island outfitters: stores like Trimingham’s, Smith’s and the English Sports Shop. These places were the source for proper Bermudas, Shetland sweaters and everything madras. The resort trend fueled an interest in madras through the postwar 1940s. A glimpse at the future 1950s madras scene appeared in the December 5, 1949 issue of LIFE Magazine. In that issue they feature Robert Smith in East Hampton wearing a plaid madras shirt, and a bare-chested, pipesmoking Pierre S. du Pont III sporting a pair of plaid madras swim trunks on Fisher Island.
Madras would continue to make its rise in the 1950s. The fledgling Gentry magazine would feature madras swim trunks in 1952. The summer 1953 issue features the madras blazer. The editors write “Cotton madras from India, the multicolor plaid-patterned fabric with a faded look, popular in sports shirts and swim trunks, now makes its appearance in another hot-weather item. It was introduced and immediately accepted in Palm Beach this winter.” The photos and accompanying text feature Ivy League jackets, three-button and “worn without shoulder pads.” LIFE Magazine also featured a couple wearing madras in 1955, and Sports illustrated would feature madras in 1956, 1958 and 1960.
Robert Ruark, sportsman and author of the evocative Southern work “The Old Man and the Boy,” wrote in his syndicated column in 1960, “My madras shirts and shorts are guaranteed to ‘bleed,’ another Madison Avenue dramatization of simple color instability, such as may be found in any ordinary shirt with no press agent.” Ruark may have been sanguine in regard to his bleeding madras, but the American market on the whole had to be sold on it.
Ellerton Jeette, president of Hathaway shirts, had been anonymously making white madras shirts for years. It was on a visit to London he noticed a bespoke shirtmaker cutting shirts out of plaid madras. This tartan-inspired fabric is believed to have its roots in the 19th-century Raj in India, when local weavers incorporated colonial patterns.
There was only one problem with the shirts when first introduced: They were rejected by the American public. Customers claimed that they bled and faded in the sun. Returns mounted and disaster loomed, so Jeette took his problem to master advertising man David Ogilvy.
It was in 1951 that Ogilvy brought the sleepy New England shirt company to national attention by introducing an eye-patched icon dubbed “The man in the Hathaway shirt.” Jeette was looking for another stroke of advertising genius, and told Ogilvy that the vegetable dyes in madras naturally faded. “Then why not say so?” replied Ogilvy.
At that moment madras’ chief flaw became it most prized virtue. Over the years the Madison Avenue spin machine churned out promises like “Hathaway guarantees that your shirts will fade in the wash,” and “Magical things happen to this shirt when you wash it.” Upping the ante, bleeding and fading were said to provide “good breeding and maturity,” something unseen in mass-produced fabric. Madras left to its natural course would produce a shirt “marvelously muted” and “dustily well-bred.”
“Unfaded madras garments are as rare as a pair of clean white bucks on a college campus,” reported The Evening Independent on July 26, 1960. In the same year an anonymous storekeeper reported, “So far as my customers are concerned, the sooner the madras fades the better they like it.” It seemed the Olgilvy strategy worked and the first half decade of the 1960s would see madras reach mass popularity.
In January 1960, the Wall Street Journal reported that the hottest thing in menswear was madras shirts and sports jackets. Esquire’s fashion director OE Schoeffler continued the drum beat in 1963, trumpeting madras as “bigger then ever.” He notes that madras was still being used for sports shirts, jackets, shorts and swimwear, but the new trend was for madras ties, belts, hats, watch bands, vests, wallets, tobacco pouches, cigarette cases and shaving kits. A UPI story from July 1965 reports that madras sales were strong in the summer of 1964, “carried through the winter in the form of pile-lined madras parkas and long sleeves sports shirts and picked up steam this summer.” The big sellers in the summer of ’65: walk shorts, sports shirts, three-button sportcoats and slacks. UPI also noted that patchwork jackets, which first appeared in Palm Beach a decade earlier, were “gaining ground.”
All good trends, however, must come to end. Madras would eventually use colorfast dyes — to the delight of Middle America mothers. America would go through a counterculture and see a rise in the popularity of workwear, and madras would retreat back to the college shops to be discovered again by the preppy crowd of the late ’70s.
The curmudgeons among us will say we have once again reached madras saturation. I look around today and the shorts seem too long, too loud, and they always seem to be paired with t-shirts. I get the feeling that the youths that wear madras today are the same sort that would be provoked to violence by the mere sight of it 30 years ago. At those moments I console myself with thoughts of a simpler time when you always wanted to have at least one friend who wore madras trousers because he always knew where the best parties were.
And when I need an extra bit of levity, I think of Early Shiply, retired clown and publicity man for Ringing Brothers, Barnum & Bailey Circus. When the circus came to New Haven in the spring of 1960, Shiply took one look at the students and quipped to the Yale Daily News, “If you see clowns one day wearing blue serge suits, it’s because you college kids are stealing our trademark with your madras outfits.” — CHRISTOPHER SHARP
How cool was it to dress Ivy during the heyday? Cool enough for the El Capris, an African American doo-wop band from Pittsburgh, to cut a B-side called “Ivy League Clean” in 1958.
The song failed to chart, however, and the band became just another forgotten doo-wop band whose name starts with “El.”
That is until the days of YouTube and blogs. So let’s raise a glass (strawberry milkshake seems appropriate) and toast those long-gone days when pop artists would actually sing about wearing a buttondown collar, striped tie and Tyrolean hat. My favorite line is:
When I come to the gig
I’m sharp as a tack
With the tassels on the shoes
And a belt in the back
And make no mistake: Those who fail to dress clean-cut will be swiftly punished:
If you wear big shoes
And a wide open shirt
When you come around
You’re sure to get hurt
The funny part is that a hipster band singing the same lyrics today might actually be kinda cool.
What goes around comes around. One of the great laws of physics. — CHRISTIAN CHENSVOLD
For Ivy Style’s 300th post, London-based contributor Rebecca C. Tuite examines the most important piece of literature about The Ivy League Look’s most important brand.
There is little doubt that Mary Mccarthy’s short story “The Man in the Brooks Brothers Shirt” is now probably more famous for its punchy title — a dream for the Brooks Brother’s marketing team — than it is for the actual story. But it remains a classic part of the mystique of the Brooks Brothers Look, and indeed, the Brooks Brothers Man.
Taken from Mary McCarthy’s 1942 novel “The Company She Keeps,” which is less a straight narrative and more a collection of six short stories, “The Man in the Brooks Brothers Shirt,” forms the third chapter in the story of Margaret Sargent, a young woman trying to redefine her life following a Reno divorce. “Floundering in a world of casual affairs and squalid intimacies,” Sargent is self-destructive, reinventing herself as a bohemian and rebelling against society, all of which finds a perfect counterpoint in Mr. Breen: a Cleveland-based executive at a steel company and the “hearty stranger in the green shirt” she meets on a Pullman car heading west to Sacramento.
The story opens with the first description of the man, who at this point remains nameless:
The new man who came into the club car was coatless. He was dressed in grey trousers and a green shirt of expensive material that had what seemed to be the figure “2” embroidered in darker green on the sleeve. His tie matched the green of the monogram, and his face, which emerged rather sharply from this tasteful symphony in cool colours, was bluish pink.
Less than impressed, Sargent sees him “like something in a seed catalogue,” and although feeling “full of contempt for the man, for his coatlessness, for his colour scheme, for his susceptibility, for his presumption,” she still allows herself, firstly, to enter into conversation with him, and secondly, to spend the night with him (subsequently enduring the following morning). All of this is peppered with Sargent’s own disgust for the promiscuity her aunt has always warned her about — “I don’t know why you make yourself so cheap,” and “It doesn’t pay to let men think you’re easy.” (Continue)
