The rainy day out on the streets of Nolita continued on like a stretch of film negatives, bleak, blurry, and uninteresting. While the day itself proved to be quite dull, being out in Lower Manhattan never really is. A little bit of rain can put a damper on a couple of things; a New Yorker’s closet is not one of them. The bold patterns, the jagged silhouettes, made the walk down Crosby Street that much better, and before I knew it, I was at number 63, Carson Street Clothier. Working for a jewelry designer, Catherine M. Zadeh in my case, has its perks. Scouting potential stockists through the streets of Manhattan is one of them. The genius behind the marriage between sterling silver, buffalo horns, and parachute cord was looking for a new home for her designs. While trekking through stores and cobbled stone streets, I found mostly a replication of what it means to be masculine, or at least, what is used to mean. Skulls, dark colors that blurred together, and heavy chains were predominant whenever I found men’s jewelry. It wasn’t exactly what I was looking for. I was striving for simpler, for character, a home where men’s masculinity and elegance were intertwined. And somehow, I found just that. Walking into Carson St. Clothiers was entering a world of mahogany, leather, and warmth. Wooden accents and the rich color of whiskey were a trend in this haven for men’s fashion. Even better were the dozens or so Ovadia & Sons blazers, Loake shoes, and Mismo handbags and briefcases (to this day, I know in my heart of hearts I must have one). Forget the fashion for a second (it’s difficult, I know), a customer could walk in, sit on a comfortable leather couch, and have a drink. You’re not being offered a product; you’re being given an experience. An experience that defines what it means to be someone conscious of the clothes you don and message you exude. The stylists at Carson Street obviously care about the return of the well-dressed gentlemen. They don’t want to cater just to one man, or 63, but to every man, and shatter the illusion that being well dressed is a feminine quality. We’re not striving to be the loudest and the rowdiest. We want to sit there, in subtle elegance, and let the clothing do the talking.