Issue #44

Words by Cory Ohlendorf | Photography courtesy of Soshiotsuki

When the recent LVMH Prize-winning designer Soshi Otsuki walked into Pitti Uomo this year, it didn’t feel like a guest designer hitting a milestone. It felt more like a shift in how the menswear world talks about clothes. And not just because he’s one of the rare Japanese designers to show in Florence’s legendary menswear showcase. This was a genuine collision of cultural currents, history and craft that, for a second, made these slightly jaded editors and buyers sit up and pay attention.

If you’ve spent any time around men’s style talk (especially in the West) there’s a kind of lazy shorthand for “Japanese fashion.” That conversation usually picks one of two extremes: exalted minimal basics that feel like pristine visual art, or rugged workwear that sweats all the old school details of yesteryear. Soshiotsuki doesn’t fit either of those boxes. As Man About Town put it, “These are clothes for the vibiest guy you know. He’s taking you to the coolest spot in town, you’re drinking whisky cocktails somewhere you can smoke inside, soundtracked by vinyl records.”

The clothes themselves are instantly recognizable as tailoring—suits, blazers, soft-shouldered jackets and flowing trousers—but they wear a kind of lived-in authority that’s rare. Even when taken up a notch in proportion, with supersized triple-pleated trousers and shrunken cardigans, things never felt forced or out of place. There’s no strict Savile Row formality, but there is a slight edge to the pieces. They inhabit a space where the suits and jacket take on persona: roomy yet intentional, elegant but not constrictive. Otsuki’s tailoring leans into drape and movement—pieces that hang in a way that feels almost cinematic, like a refreshed riff on the power suits of the past rather than a literal resurrection of them. It’s the sort of proportional tension that keeps a silhouette feeling current even when it’s rooted in history.

That’s part of what makes the Pitti moment significant. Otsuki isn’t importing Japanese motifs for drama, and he isn’t swinging for irony. He’s engaging with tailoring as culture—not just technique but meaning. His work channels the spirit of Japan’s Bubble Era, when Italian suits were the currency of aspiration for salarymen, and infuses that memory with a specificity and nuance that feels both nostalgic and forward-leaning. Those influences aren’t papered on; they’re stitched into the way the clothes behave on the body.

And that matters at Pitti because the trade show isn’t runway spectacle in the way the major fashion weeks are. It’s where buyers, editors, and industry lifers come expecting wearable intelligence. They want work they can sell, styles they can stock, and designers with language—not just gimmicks. For a label like Soshiotsuki, whose clothes feel as much about attitude as they do about fit and fabric, showing at Pitti was validation on the brand’s own terms. It wasn’t about proving that Japanese fashion exists; it was about proving that a Japanese designer can reshape a global conversation about the suit itself without exoticizing his own culture.

Fashion writer Ashley Ogawa Clarke, who reviews shows for Vogue, called the debut “mindbendingly elegant!” in his Wimpy newsletter. He added that it was up there as one of the most era-defining collections he’d  ever seen. And this guy has seen a lot. “Soshi’s tailoring is an expression of the complicated beauty that exists in the Japanese desire to dress in Western clothing. Nobody thus far has explored the nuances of this in the way that Soshi has, which is why his salaryman suits look so fresh.” 

There’s also an enduring comparison people make (and it’s no accident) to classic Armani silhouettes: soft shoulders, generous drape, a relaxed but assertive stance that suggests authority without armor. Otsuki admires that legacy, even studied it obsessively early in his life, and says his mood boards are full of old refrence images from the Armani heyday. He says he often buys vintage Armani pieces and then unpicks the linings to study how the garments were constructed. But he doesn’t replicate it in a carbon copy form. Instead, he quotes it, layering in a cultural sensibility born from his own context. The result feels like the suit, rethought from the inside out: lighter in spirit, full of movement, and built for someone who wants presence without rigidity.

At a moment when menswear often feels like it’s ping-ponging between nostalgic revival and outright unattainable fantasy, Otsuki’s work feels inherently grounded: clothes that exist on real bodies, and in real wardrobes. They echo the luxury of another era without apologizing for it, and in doing so, remind us that the suit—arguably the most conservative garment in menswear—still has room for innovation.

That, for me, is the essential takeaway from Soshiotsuki’s Pitti Uomo showing: his burgeoning label didn’t just attend one of menswear’s most storied gatherings, it reframed what a Japanese approach to tailoring can be on the global stage. In an industry where everyone chases novelty, there’s power in his precision and passion. And even more in a perspective with something original to say about clothes that should already feel familiar.

Call me lazy, but I get tired of chewing gum. I prefer a nice mint to freshen my breath. And this tiny packet of mints is the best I’ve ever tried. The Japanese have perfected another product. The slim case is about the same size as a credit card and only marginally thicker. They slide into a pocket without even being perceptible. A small hatch flips down and deposits one mint into your palm at a time and once you pop it into your mouth, you get a rush of refreshing, minty coolness. The ColdSmash flavor is a particularly icy mint that offers the closet feeling of freshly-brushed teeth I’ve ever experience. They’re so popular here in Tokyo that accessory brands even sell leather covers for the containers. Which, yes, I do own now.

Kyouka Suigetsu (花水月) is a poetic turn of phrase that’s basically a complex idiom that includes the moon’s reflection on water but also references a “flower in the mirror”. Essentially, it’s describing those things that are visible but cannot be touched, like a beautiful dream or a mirage. It’s used to reference a variety of things that cannot really be expressed in words, only admired, and is therefore used to describe particular emotions or beauty.