This summer men are baring their chests — how low will you go?

Times

2 days ago

It has been remarked many times that the history of women's fashion can be traced through the rise and fall of hemlines — a pendulum that swings from modesty to liberation then back again. Men's tailoring, in contrast, has gone down a more linear path: one towards undressing. In the 1970s men shed their suit jackets in an effort to shake off some of the formality inherent in tailoring. A few decades later they ditched their ties, relieving the accessory of its symbolic labour until it was only seen at weddings and on newsreaders. Now, in this moment of deshabille, men are moulting their dress shirts. Where they once served as cotton backdrops for a bit of patterned silk, shirts now offer a different kind of display: buttons undone, one by one, until the placket becomes little more than a frame for a patch of bare chest.
There's no ignoring how men's style has become so intentionally suggestive. Earlier this year the actor Colman Domingo — arguably the best-dressed male celebrity of the moment — appeared at the Baftas in a floor-sweeping leather overcoat, sharp black suit with cigarette-cut trousers and a silk Versace shirt unbuttoned down to his navel. At the Gladiator II premiere in London Pedro Pascal wore an all-black outfit with his shirt's neckline dipping far below his sternum. And then there's Harry Styles, whose fondness for showing his chest has become an established part of his uniform. One suspects he keeps buttons more for decoration than for closure.
Men didn't always dress so freely. In the mid-19th century the average bourgeois Englishman encased himself in layers that spoke less of personal style than of propriety. His linen day shirt — a pared-down descendant of the ruffle and frill-fronted shirts worn by his forebears — was plain by design, as it wasn't meant to be seen. The shirt was considered underwear at the time, serving as what the sociologist Elizabeth Shove has called a 'boundary object': a mediating layer between the private body and the public world. It protected the outer garments from the body's secretions, shielded sensitive skin from itchier wools, and conferred a sense of decency in a society uncomfortable with nakedness. This layer disappeared beneath a high-buttoned waistcoat, a tailored suit jacket and a tightly cinched cravat, leaving only the bright punctuation of shirt collar and cuffs to be seen.
These dress practices were rigid in both code and structure. By the late 19th century the collar had become a site of exceptional severity — stiff, detachable and often punishing to the jawline — a starched band that operated, quite literally and figuratively, as a cultural chokehold. There's something telling in the story of John Cruetzi, an American man found dead in Baltimore one evening in 1888. Having had too much to drink, Cruetzi nodded off on a park bench and, as his head tilted forward, the starch-bound collar pressed inward, constricting his windpipe and cutting off the blood flow to his brain. The coroner ruled it death by asphyxia, but one might say he died from his fidelity to decorum.
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As cultural codes loosened, the stiff, armoured layers of Victorian respectability eventually fell, one by one. The first casualty was the waistcoat. By the interwar years men had embraced the two-piece suit, revealing the once-invisible shirt beneath. Soon garments once confined to the realm of underthings began migrating outward. Chief among them was the T-shirt, a humble descendant of the calico undervest worn by labourers. Initially meant to warm the torso and absorb sweat, the garment slipped into public view aboard US naval decks, thanks to conscripted sailors, before landing in cinema. There it became the calling card of the disaffected youth: Marlon Brando brooding in A Streetcar Named Desire; James Dean adrift in Rebel Without a Cause.
This current wave of male exhibitionism fits within a longer history of changing dress norms, but it doesn't emerge directly from such distant pasts. Instead, it's the product of cultural shifts that have brought sexual display to the forefront of menswear. For much of the past 20 years, men's fashion has favoured restraint, often drawing on the cultivated taste of old-money elites or the heroic look of mid-century labourers. But with changing taste and shifting cultural norms, designers and style-conscious consumers have begun taking inspiration from the lush decades of the 1970s and 1980s. Consequently menswear has become increasingly louche and libidinal.
To understand this shift, we have to go back to the early 2000s, when designers such as Raf Simons, Hedi Slimane and Thom Browne shrank men's silhouettes as a counter-reaction to the oversized silhouettes of the previous two decades. For a time men squeezed themselves into clothes that seemed to have been put through a hot wash and tumble-dry: shrunken jackets with narrow lapels, suction-fit shirts with diminutive collars and hip-hugging, low-rise trousers that clung to calves.
Twenty years on, the clothes that once telegraphed youth now feel irredeemably middle-aged. To distinguish themselves from the mass market, cutting-edge designers have revived the voluminous styles that earlier designers rebelled against: broad shoulders, deep pleats and billowing fabrics that set sail in the wind. The overall aesthetic recalls Richard Gere's Armani swagger in the 1980 film American Gigolo.
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This shift in proportions has come at a time when gender norms have loosened. Thus, it's no wonder that the flamboyant, expressive styles of the 1970s and 1980s — originally provocations against the bourgeois — have become relevant again. Brands like Bode and Kartik Research tap into the period's bohemian spirit through patchwork and embroidery, while Saint Laurent and Husbands Paris channel the glamour of the era's padded tailoring. As old anxieties around flamboyance recede, a new kind of straight male exhibitionism has emerged: Jeremy Allen White in a mesh tank top; Aimé Leon Dore normalising lace shirts. Shorts are routinely cut with thigh-baring 5in inseams; silky shirts are barely buttoned. If there's any cover at all, it's often in the form of chunky, glamorous eyewear from Jacques Marie Mage, which has muscled out the minimalist, geek-chic frames once associated with intellectualism.
While this new style is openly suggestive, it's not always aimed at women. Just as many women dress for the appreciation of other women, straight men now often dress for a discerning male gaze, such as fashion-savvy friends and Instagram followers fluent in the same visual language. The look is sleazy, yes, but sleazy for the boys.
A touch of good sense is required when venturing into unbuttoned territory. If you're wearing a standard office shirt with chinos and dress shoes, keep the buttons fastened (no one wants a call from HR). But when away from fluorescent lights and cubicle walls, unfastening a few shirt buttons brings summer comfort and telegraphs ease. A deep, open placket works best with casual shirts, such as chambray work shirts or denim western button-ups. When paired with bootcut jeans and a denim trucker — or, better still, with casual tailoring in linen or a wool-silk-linen blend — the look has a certain roguish charm. For some style inspiration, check out the Instagram accounts for Mark Maggiori (@markmaggiori), Ben Cobb (@bengcobb), Kamau Hosten (@kamauhosten) and Peter Zottolo (@urbancomposition). Or revisit the tousled masculinity of a 1970s Robert Redford. A bit of facial hair — maybe even some chest hair — helps sell the look.
For those unsettled by the sight of so many bare sternums, it's worth remembering that every stage of male undressing has been met with discomfort. The T-shirt was once considered improper; tielessness seemed too casual for serious men; even the visible shirt itself was, in Victorian times, akin to showing your underwear. Today's bare chests may raise eyebrows, but they belong to a long lineage of men loosening up. Ultimately there's nothing wrong with any style move, as long as you know what you're expressing.