The diverse Malay-speaking Muslims of 1930s Singapore, reflecting the manner of urbane, cosmopolitan, and educated elites in early-20th century Asia. Lee Brothers Studio Collection, courtesy of the National Archives of Singapore.
Slow style, formal pleasure
Our ritual of dress acts on our bodies, opening up possibilities beyond what bodies can achieve.
The first time I visited a tailor, all I wanted was a new pair of trousers. Pleated, half-gurkha, creased down to the cuffs, with side-adjusters. I went to Tanjong Pagar, where the tailor pulled out little books of swatches—square samples of fabric—to choose from. I ran my fingers over them, in navy, maroon, and sage-green, from open weaves to twills. It was like Geylang Serai on Hari Raya eve, choosing fabric for curtains and sofa-covers. I was transported to Arab Street, my mother and aunts thumbing Swiss voile for their baju kurung, the trader unrolling one cylinder after another from his library of patterns. All those years watching them with envy! It was my turn now.
The finished trousers sat on my natural waist right at the navel. Taking up two-thirds of my form, they elongated my legs and concealed my midsection flab. I felt cradled, like sitting on a chair carved just for me. I wore them to the library, to nasi padang brunch, to the theatre. Before long I made another pair, in coffee-brown and from a cotton-linen blend. They elevated even a modest readymade Oxford shirt, or a plain T-shirt tucked in.
Those trousers were my portal to the world of tailored clothes, and the ways of wearing them, termed “classic style” or traditional menswear. Imagine the formal Western menswear of the 1920s to the mid-20th century. With slight variation, the typical ensemble includes a plain long-sleeved shirt, underneath a jacket (single- or double-breasted), matched with high-rise trousers, a necktie and pocket square. Real shoes—not sneakers—dark and polished, solidify each stride into a resounding click.
Classic menswear evolved out of industrialisation, the spread of capitalism, and the global dominance of the British Empire. In colonial centres worldwide, the suit became the unassuming uniform of the public man, whose sartorial restraint mirrored moderate passions and rational disinterest. The standard appearance of the suit-and-tie was compatible with the egalitarian ethos of bourgeois society. At social clubs, soirées, coffeehouses, and literary salons, men in suits engaged in polite conversation. Their social world was built around public discourse and mass consumerism.
But there was already sophisticated male style in this region. South-east Asians always kept up with worldly fashions that came along trade routes. Indian-loomed cottons—Gujarati patolas, Deccani chintz, Bengal muslin—were a vital currency. Brocaded Chinese silks were prized diplomatic gifts. 18th-century Perak royalty supposedly dressed like Chinese mandarins. Persian-style coats were adopted by Siamese rulers.
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Young Singaporean men beset with economic anxiety, navigating changing gender norms, and fed on a social media diet of conspicuous consumption are charting new career paths both worrying and brave.
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