In the fall of 2010, I attended a party at the Barneys on Madison Avenue in New York City. Simon Doonan was signing flip-flops on the main floor and the Olsen twins were about to cause a riot upstairs. Tavi Gevinson posed for pictures, while Anna Wintour hid in a corner with her Blackberry. The normally sedate department store was reduced to a well-groomed circus. Not exactly the store its eponymous patriarch Barney Pressman envisioned in 1923.

In his critical history, Joshua Levine recounts the story of three generations of Pressman men and Barneys, beginning with the store’s original incarnation, a bargain basement with a huge surplus of merchandise and deals to spare. The tagline was “Calling All Men!” And did they ever—Barneys was a jumble of a place, always stocked with every size, no matter how obscure. It’s clear that Levine delights in this original incarnation, as well as Pressman’s determination and hard-luck beginning.

In addition to the facts, Levine relays anecdotes from supporters and detractors of the store. Some are charming, some sad, some shocking: like when Barney Pressman sponsored the radio broadcast coverage of the trial of Bruno Richard Hauptmann who was convicted of kidnapping and murdering Charles Lindbergh’s two year old son. Levine explains: “Think of a small local haberdasher you had never heard of using the murder trial of Timothy McVeigh to hawk cheap suits, and you get an idea of the exhilarating tastelessness of the whole thing.” He pairs these secondhand stories with the cold hard numbers that took Barneys from an extremely profitable and powerful family business into its eventual bankruptcy. Even with all the figures, Levine keeps a fast pace and had me turning the pages nonstop to find out how it all ends.

After serving in World War II, Barney’s son Fred took control of the store. He worked steadily to acquire higher end merchandise and broaden their customer base. Now you could get Christian Dior and affordable suits in the same place. However, it was the third generation who brought about the family’s undoing. Gene Pressman and his appetite for excess (wild nights at Studio 54, lavish clothing for himself and his wife, homes photographed for prestigious interior design magazines), paired with his brother Bob’s “creative accounting” led the entire company to ruin. The Pressmans filed for Chapter 11 Bankruptcy in 1996, relinquishing all but two per cent of their stock (which they sold to the Jones Apparel Group in 2007). And Levine convincingly argues that this is best for the store and for its patrons.

Since the publication of this book, Barneys has gone through a wide range of CEOs and primary shareholders. I happen to be extremely interested in the cutthroat nature of designer fashion retail, so this book was perfect for me. Levine is subtle but insistent in his belief that the Pressmans failed because they stopped catering to “all men” and fell into the trap of serving a very particular customer, foregoing profits for their own brand of elitism. Photo-ops with celebrities are all well and good, but affordable merchandise that people actually want to buy? That’s priceless.

The Rise and Fall of the House of Barneys: A Family Tale of Chutzpah, Glory, and Greed By Joshua Levine (William Morrow/Harper Collins, 1999)

review by Haley Mlotek
photography by Samantha Walton

I’m big on lists. I write them in my planner, on scraps of paper (when said planner is unavailable), and when things get really desperate, in smudgy scribbles on my hands. My favorite type is of the “to buy” assortment, although mine always seems to grow and can never be completed, creating one giant, ongoing list. Almost every time I head to a shop, be it alone or with friends, for large pieces of furniture or just groceries, I will secretly be clutching a list detailing exactly what I’d like to buy. There’s just one problem: no matter what I have on my list, I somehow always end up bringing home the same thing. Shoes.

Last weekend, I went out looking for a vintage trunk to use as a coffee table in my new place. What did I come home with? Vintage suede slippers with a delicately embroidered toe in a delicious olive green. A few weeks earlier, it was black patent vintage Ferragamos with a fabric bow and gold detailing, a pair so precious they managed to trump my basic food needs for the week. No matter how final my lists are on paper, my mind always seems to have a subconscious agenda that constantly pulls me to the footwear department, distracting me from the things I actually need.

Now that I find myself packing up my tiny bachelor to move, I can’t help but feel ashamed by the sheer mass of shoes I’ve accumulated in the last year. Worse, I can’t seem to convince myself to pack them; the discovery of each clog, boot, and heel offers new outfit inspiration or nostalgia for looks lost in my past. As I pack away everything around me, the shoes stay, stacked in piles in my closet, by my door, hanging on a rolling rack, and even displayed on shelves. The evidence of my addiction is daunting, but I can’t bring myself to part with a single pair. Their soles have somehow become a piece of my soul, and the few times where I have persuaded myself to share my footwear finds, I really do miss them like old friends.

Am I going to end up like Imelda Marcos, with over 3400 pairs and no control whatsoever? Why do I choose clogs over cardigans and stilettos over shorts?

Perhaps it’s because, despite my misshapen feet, buying shoes is easier than almost anything else. Instead of shuffling into a tiny change room, taking off every layer, and scrutinizing how a garment fits my body, an intriguing pair of oxfords can be slipped on without the hassle, and will almost always fit my foot. Even if the size is a bit off, I’ve been known to turn a blind eye; this results in a small number of shoes I can only wear with three layers of socks.

I also find it easier to justify footwear. Work is always a go-to excuse for a new pair of black brogues, and school serves as an excellent reason to invest in extra sneakers. When a shoe doesn’t fit an everyday event in my life, I always manage to fabricate an extraordinary circumstance where I will need the shoe in question. “Maybe I’ll wear these to an 80’s themed party?” or “ These would be just perfect for a picnic in High Park!” are common rationalizations, although I seldom partake in either of these activities.

In the end, shoes are simply so much shinier, prettier, and more personal than anything else on my list. I can’t let my aging pairs go because every time I look at them, I get lost in the memories we’ve shared together. I can’t turn down a new find when the shoes on store shelves offer a little story, a character of their own, and a place they want to take me. I want to go to those places, so naturally I buy the shoes.

- Alyssa Garrison

Walking into a fitting room and seeing a lack of mirrors often sends me into a cold sweat. I dread leaving the comforts of my rectangular chute to appraise my garment in front of a stand of jurors (or rather, annoyed consumers waiting in line). I get achy wondering if my underwear might be showing, or that the fitted silhouette of my skirt really hugs the wrong curves. Why should I be forced to make these (self-esteem punching) discoveries in public?

There have been a handful of occasions where I have tried something on, noticed there were no mirrors, taken the item off and left it behind, all because I was too shy to wander around looking for a reflective surface in an overcrowded store. On a side note, does anyone else hate having to try on accessories in an open store environment? Many a beautiful hat I have walked away from because I was alone and too wimpy to try it on in front of other shoppers. What if it doesn’t fit right? Or messes up my hair? Or makes me look like I’m attending church in 1923 — in a bad way? I guess what it all comes down to is an aversion to looking at myself in the mirror in public in general. No one wants to be the vanity-case caught giving their best Zoolander in H&M. So I try to keep my moments looking in mirrors outside the fitting room brief, and often don’t buy anything that I haven’t been afforded the luxury of examining in private for at least three minutes.

I must admit, my place of work is guilty of the public mirror. In a men’s suit store, mirrors outside the fitting room become more necessity then hindrance. A suit is worn multiple times a week, and is a foundational garment to a man’s wardrobe, so professional opinion and tailoring is often expected as part of the shopping process. While I have experienced the tremors and consequent pitfalls of being forced to come outside the fitting room to assess a garment, working in this type of environment has also led me to see some benefits. When I, as the salesperson, am able to actually see the garment on you, I can help in more efficient ways. If you show me the best and worst qualities of the piece you are trying on, it’s easier for me to pick out a designer or brand to suit your needs. I’ve stopped counting the times that I have been left at close to put away 26 pairs of pants left in one fitting room, all because the customer didn’t want to come out to take a look at where the problem was. Instead I heard him lament over and over “it just didn’t feel right.” Rather than confining yourself to defeat in the fitting room, remember that coming out in the garment is beneficial to both yourself and the attendant. I’m not getting paid to stand around and make fun of you.

It seems to me that in most cases when the mirror is outside the fitting room, the store wants to foster a relationship between salesperson and consumer. Though daunting at first, I actually think this relationship can have its upsides, even in an environment outside of men’s suits. Though some may sit with a snarl suited to Sid Vicious, fitting room attendants ultimately should make your shopping experience less stressful (even if they are just grabbing a different size or color). As for the customer with the 26 pairs of pants, in the end we were able to find one pair of trousers that he liked, but if he had come out to look in the mirror wearing the first pair he tried, maybe I wouldn’t have been restocking pants until my fingernails bled. So it seems I am lucky enough to see both sides of the looking glass, and in light of it all I am urging myself to start a (small) revolution. Take a deep breath, draw the curtain, and come out of the fitting room.

- Casie Brown

It wasn’t until I caught myself telling people (on multiple occasions), “I don’t buy summer clothes,” that I realized why autumn is my favourite season. I thought it was the changing leaves, the fleeting excitement of starting new classes, or the ability to order a hot cup of coffee without being asked, “would you like that iced?” Then, in late July, as I found myself wearing dresses from three summers ago and not wanting to spend money on summer clothing (even though I needed it), I realized that my love for fall stems from one thing: clothing.

What I love most about fall clothing isn’t so practical a reason as being able to wear the same pieces throughout the year, but with less layers. It’s the layering itself that really gets me going. Forget jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie. No, no. I’d rather wear tights, frilly socks, boots, a skirt, a t-shirt, an oversized cardigan, a scarf, a hat, and - well, you see where this is going. In the summer heat, “putting an outfit together” in the morning feels like “finding the outfit I’ll sweat least in.” I dread it. In the fall, though, getting dressed in the chilly morning feels like baking a layer-cake of textures and colours that will keep me warm, comforted, all day long. Who doesn’t like cake?

So, I ask you two things:

What season do you love getting dressed in, and why? And does anyone know of a country where the temperature rests permanently around 15 degrees celsius? I’d like to move there.

Words by Stephanie Fereiro
Photos by Samantha Walton