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| Rubinacci in London |
Bespoke
Tailor on Earth
Rubinacci,
the legendary Neapolitan atelier, will make you the suit of a
lifetime in just one week.
By David Coggins |
September 20, 2016
Photographs by Salva
Lopez
From Bloomberg
Pursuits
Never lie to your
tailor. Armed with a tape measure, he knows your body better than you
do. He sees it with almost X-ray vision, noting with clinical
accuracy that your left arm is an inch longer than your right, or
that your right shoulder slopes a half-inch more than your left.
I know this rule,
but inside the 16th century palazzo that houses Rubinacci, the most
renowned bespoke tailor in Naples, I’m standing like it’s roll
call in the army. And when the tape measure goes around my waist, I
try to suppress the urge to inhale. As my tailor, Andrea, reads out
the circumference, in centimeters, and in Italian, I wince, thinking
of all the linguine alle vongole and spaghetti con ricci di mare I’d
eaten at Da Dora, a beloved, delicious seafood restaurant a short
walk away.
Rubinacci suit
fitting
Rolls of fabric in
the Rubinacci atelier; Andrea, the head cutter, adjusts the basted
jacket during the author’s first fitting.
Photographer: Salva
Lopez for Bloomberg Pursuits
“Bespoke” is now
a marketing buzzword, but it originally meant a bolt of wool fabric
that a gentleman had ordered for a suit—it was “spoken for.” A
true bespoke suit is cut entirely by hand, a process that at
Rubinacci requires 54 man-hours and is based on a paper pattern cut
specifically for you.
The Rubinacci family
has been in the bespoke business since 1932, when Gennaro Rubinacci,
an art collector with society connections, established the company,
dubbing it “The London House” to remind customers of Savile Row.
“Bebè,” as he was known, had a radical idea: to make
unstructured, unlined jackets meant to be worn out of the office. He
hired tailors to follow his direction and used English fabrics for
suits and sport coats that felt entirely new to his Italian
customers.
The designs took
off, and his clients were some of the most stylish men in the
country, including filmmaker Vittorio De Sica and Curzio Malaparte,
the journalist whose modernist Capri house was featured in the
Jean-Luc Godard film Le Mépris. When Bebè’s son, Mariano, took
over in the early 1960s, he renamed the company Rubinacci but
continued the London House style. It’s defined by its high armholes
(elegant in appearance, comfortable in practice), minimal
construction (for a natural fit, as opposed to the more formal
British jacket), and coveted soft shoulders.
“I’ve known
Mariano Rubinacci for over 30 years and have never seen the firm
produce a bad suit,” says G. Bruce Boyer, men’s fashion expert
and author of True Style. The company is now run by both Mariano and
his son, Luca, who has kept his family’s attention on fabrics—he
estimates they have 200,000 feet of vintage cloth in stock.
There are many great
suitmakers in Naples—Kiton, Isaia, Cesare Attolini—but Rubinacci
sets itself apart in a distinct way. The company can make a bespoke
suit, at a starting price of $5,480, in about a week. It’s not
something that’s advertised or promoted. Turning around a handmade
suit that quickly requires the concerted attention of jacket and
trouser cutters who work more than five hours a day over that week on
a single suit.
For those put off by
the thought of a monthslong series of fittings, this is an answer to
prayer. And it’s why I’ve come to Naples, to the company’s
headquarters on a secluded section of Via Filangieri, in the historic
center of the city. The morning I arrive is hot and humid, yet as I
walk down the Chiaia, the city’s central pedestrian street, none of
the Neapolitans seem to mind. I’d already taken off my sport coat
and loosened my tie, but the men here all wear suits as if the heat
doesn’t affect them at all.
Up a curved
cobblestone ramp is a courtyard, where the red awnings say
“Rubinacci” and potted plants are set against the stone facade of
the ancient building that holds the store and atelier. Inside, the
shop is full of bright, colorful silk ties and pocket squares, a
vivid reminder of the family’s history in textiles. Upstairs, in a
high-ceilinged room with an old-world couch and mirror, are stacks of
fabrics. Some are waiting to be made into shirts, but most will
become suits.
The measuring
process at Rubinacci is a communal activity. Andrea has been making
the jackets here for more than a decade. He wears a dark brown
peaked-lapel jacket that’s nattier than anything you’ll see at
Pitti Uomo. Alessandra Rubinacci, the founder’s granddaughter and
my consigliere, oversees the process and translates into English. At
many tailors, discussions with the head cutter are very much
man-to-man. Not here. Alessandra navigates me through preferred
fabrics, cuts, and other design details. She’s worked here since
she was 17 and is clearly in her element. “This is my family
company,” she says. “Men want to look good for women, anyway.”
Andrea asks to see
the jacket I arrived in—one not made by Italian tailors. He holds
it up, looks at it inside and out, and measures it as well. The one
he makes will be longer than this one, he clarifies, by a centimeter
or two. He thinks it helps the continuity. It’s not a verdict
against me or my coat, but it feels like one. The whole process makes
me feel very vulnerable, like getting a sartorial audit.
Rubinacci suit
fitting
The author tries on
trousers, and Andrea tests the fit of the jacket as Alessandra, the
founder’s granddaughter, looks on.
Photographer: Salva
Lopez for Bloomberg Pursuits
Then Lino, a tall,
handsome man in his 30s who specializes in trousers, steps in. He
measures my waist, of course, but also my legs from top to bottom,
front and back. He asks me, with grave importance, do I want cuffs? I
say yes. How high will they be? Some Italians prefer a robust 6cm
cuff, so tall they will not be ignored. For this suit we agree to the
more traditional 3cm cuff. It’s marked in chalk so I can visualize
it.
I already have a
pretty good idea of what I want. Rubinacci makes a smart
double-breasted suit—it’s one of Mariano’s staples, a pinstripe
version worn with a knit tie—and the house has made six-button,
double-breasted jackets since back in Bebè’s day. “It’s an
easy, elegant look with that unmistakable Italian attitude and style
that men find incredibly appealing,” says Bruce Pask, men’s
fashion director at Bergdorf Goodman.
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Although Mariano
dresses relatively conservatively (at least for an Italian), his son,
Luca, is a study in sprezzatura—purple trousers, mixed patterns,
velvet Belgian loafers, and wrists covered in string bracelets. He
models the company’s suits in its advertisements around Naples, and
he also turns up on GQ’s international best-dressed list and style
websites such as the Sartorialist.
Andrea shows me one
of the double-breasted jackets he’s working on. It’s lovely, but
I tell Alessandra, who communicates to Andrea, that I want my lapels
a little larger, about an inch wider. Truth be told, I have a large
head, and a wide lapel helps make it look smaller. (A relationship
with a tailor involves sharing uncomfortable truths—even about
parts of you the suit doesn’t cover.) Andrea takes a piece of chalk
and draws on the suit a new, wider, slightly rounder lapel.
Now a question of
fine distinction: Where will it button? Traditionally, a
double-breasted coat has two decorative buttons on top and bottom,
and you use the middle two to fasten the suit, but a few men such as
Luca himself have their suits made so that the jacket buttons only at
the bottom. I think, Why not? I’ll do as Luca does.
Alessandra raises an
eyebrow. “Are you sure?” she asks. I nod. Andrea takes the bolt
of fabric under his arm, and he and Lino climb the set of stairs up
to the atelier. The cutting is about to begin, and, like taking
clippers to a beard, once you’ve made the first cut there’s no
going back.
Two days later, I
return for my first fitting to the same cast of characters. I’m
given an espresso—this is Naples, after all. The suit is barely
held together with what are called basted stitches. It has no lining,
no pockets, and will be pulled apart again after I leave, then put
back together with the new alterations taken into account. Andrea
pulls in and then lets out the jacket from behind, so I can see how
it will look at various widths.
Rubinacci suit
fitting
Andrea and other
craftsmen fine-tune the suit.
Photographer: Salva
Lopez for Bloomberg Pursuits
But then I realize
something I should already have known: I’m no Luca Rubinacci. The
buttons haven’t been sewn yet, so as the tailor pins it shut where
the button will be, I see that the line of the lapel falls at a steep
diagonal across my body, below my waist, down to my hipbone—not
near the navel, where most jackets close. It’s almost like wearing
a jacket with the ease of a cardigan.
Which is fine for a
Neapolitan. But for me it’s a little too expressive, too relaxed,
and, well, too Italian. Alessandra seems to sense this. “That’s
why we have the first fitting,” she says with a smile. Andrea pins
the jacket where the new button will go, and instantly it looks more
appropriate. A new chalk mark is made.
I follow Andrea
upstairs from the elegant showroom to the atelier, where 20 people
work around cutting tables that are specifically large enough to
accommodate an unrolled bolt of fabric, the standard measure for all
suits. There are large scissors and packs of cigarettes. I’m
surprised by how quiet it is. Other than the local radio and some
conversation, there’s hardly a sound. It hits me: There are no
machines.
Over the course of
the week, I frequent Café do Brasil and Caffé Mexico, local
favorites. Neapolitan men live and breathe tailoring, and they share
their opinions about their tailor (and those they pointedly don’t
use) with ease and conviction. I meet more than one man who will buy
a good bolt of fabric when he sees one and then take it to his
shirtmaker. E. Marinella, a tiemaker on the Riviera di Chiaia, opens
at 6:30 a.m., so men can pick one up on the way to work.
Finished Rubinacci
suit
Coggins in the
Rubinacci courtyard in the finished suit.
Photographer: Salva
Lopez for Bloomberg Pursuits
Two days later, my
suit is almost done. Rubinacci can make a suit without the second
fitting, but it’s a good idea to have one. The buttons are sewn;
the lapels are cut. I admire the handwork visible in the
buttonholes—they stand up higher, and each stitch can be seen
individually—as opposed to the uniform, flat feel of machine-made
ones.
Exactly one week
after arriving in Naples, I’m standing in the courtyard wearing the
final product. It’s surprisingly cool, despite the heat. I thank
Andrea for his work. He seems to enjoy seeing the link between his
skill and a man heading out into the world, even though I may not
have been as daring as a true Neapolitan such as Luca. But, as he
says, “When a gentleman comes to Rubinacci, we try to discover the
style he has inside.”
Bespoke suits start
at $5,480, including a six-night stay at Casa Rubinacci. Call +39 081
415-793 to make an appointment.
Book of the week – Rubinacci and the Story of Neapolitan Tailoring. in http://www.esquire.co.uk
This year has seen the publication of some fine and important books. I’ve spent nine years anticipating Jonathan Frantzen’s Freedom, while others, like Proust’s Overcoat by Lorenza Foschini and The General by Jonathan Fenby rather crept up on me. However, the book of the year, in tailoring terms, is undoubtedly Rubinacci and the Story of Neapolitan Tailoring by Nick Foulkes.
As the only Neapolitan tailoring house to successfully export its bespoke services Rubinacci is the foremost tailor from the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. As such the book’s principal appeal is that it illustrates the details that make Neapolitan tailoring special. These details – the breast pockets, the stitching, but most importantly the soft shoulders – are clearly captured by the excellent photography.
There’s also a good account of how the Rubinacci family rose to be one of world’s pre-eminent tailoring dynasties (the Cundeys and the Skinners on Savile Row also deserve a mention). But of equal interest is the way that Foulkes explains that there’s no such thing as Italian tailoring, there is Neapolitan tailoring and there is northern Italian tailoring – remember that Northern Italy starts at Rome.
The appeal of Neapolitan jackets is that they are built for the heat, with minimal construction. This makes them easy to wear and comfortable and gives them a relaxed look that is at odds with Savile Row’s traditional military-inspired cut. For bespoke connoisseurs there’s an unbridgeable gap between these two approaches, and the incredible vintage clothes that appear in this book make an eloquent argument in favour of the Neapolitan tailoring tradition.
Rubinacci and the Story of Neapolitan Tailoring by Nicholas Foulkes is available to buy now. www.fetherstonhaugh.com
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