Red-Sauce and Martinis:: Inside the Half-Century Reign of Dan Tana’s

On my last trip to Los Angeles I wanted to make sure to visit Dan Tana’s Italian restaurant for dinner. It was not terribly difficult to get a reservation. The person who answered the phone was accommodating also, when I wanted to adjust the time. Might have helped that I went on a Monday night, although Monday nights can be busy in West Hollywood.

While there I was seated at a small table for two across from the bar the waiter was deliberate and efficient and essentially told me exactly what to order. Luckily it was very similar to what I had in mind. He said “have a Caesar salad, Chicken Parm and a martini.” That is pretty much my order at every Italian restaurant coincedentally enough. I think I may have already ordered the martini so he may not have called that one.

Dan Tana’s on Santa Monica Boulevard sits like an anchor dropped into 1964 where it has sat nearly unchanged since. For those who appreciate nostalgia and places unchanged by time this is good thing.

The story of the landmark LA restaurant began with Dobrivoje "Dan" Tana a former Yugoslavian professional soccer player who arrived in Los Angeles via a route of postwar borders, ambition, and a $5,000 poker win. Like many before him, he came chasing the mirage of Hollywood. When acting yielded the harsh realities of the industry, Tana found his true calling in hospitality, working the floor at legendary old-world rooms like Villa Capri and La Scala before taking over a modest bungalow a few doors down from the Troubadour.

By the time the 1980s rolled around and the city was caught up in the orbit of the "Showtime" Lakers, Dan Tana’s became an unofficial hardwood sanctuary. Lakers owner Dr. Jerry Buss was a fixture of the room for decades, spending so many nights in his favorite booth that a plaque featuring a signed championship game program reading "For the best food in town, see Dan Tana’s" was permanently mounted on the wall. The kitchen named its shrimp scampi in his honor. Magic Johnson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s Lakes defined the cultural pulse of Los Angeles, and the team spent many nights in the decade eating steaks at Dan Tana’s after leaving the Forum Club.

For its first few years, the small red-and-white striped room barely scraped by, serving sometimes less than two dozen dinners a night. Everything changed in 1966 when a glowing review in the Los Angeles Times painted it as one of the city’s hidden gems. Overnight, the booths filled with a contradictory cross-section of Los Angeles: New Hollywood stars like Jack Nicholson, studio bosses, and journeymen looking for a stiff drink.

Its proximity to the Troubadour also tied Dan Tana’s inextricably to the mythos of rock and roll. It was across these red-checkered tables that Don Henley and Glenn Frey, watching a young woman with an older companion, scribbled the lyrics to "Lyin' Eyes" on a cocktail napkin. When a large fire gutted the interior in 1980, it was the collective outcry of regulars, including a quiet intervention involving the Governor of California to fast-track building permits—that resurrected the room almost exactly as it was.

The famous Chicken Parm.

The food at Dan Tana’s refuses to apologize for being just what it is.. It is an monument to mid-century Italian-American cooking, heavy with garlic, butter, and history. The menu is an archive of the room’s regular clientele, with plates named for the luminaries who ordered the same thing every time in. You have the legendary chicken parmigiana, thick, sweet marinara and blanketed in charred mozzarella, alongside the Caesar salad chopped tableside with a punch of anchovy. Classic steaks and veal cutlets feature the names of old Hollywood character actors and sports greats. As a by product every order turns into a element of LA history. The menu hasn't evolved because it was not meant to.

Dan Tana’s endures because it offers an antidote to modern life. Underneath the glow of the Chianti bottles, the restaurant remains as proof that Los Angeles loves to invent the future, it also secretly longs for the past.

No. 7 After Dark: The Commerce Comet’s New York

In the 50s, New York was the epicenter of baseball. The city had three baseball teams, countless newspapers, and hundreds of bars that stayed open until dawn. Baseball players weren’t millionaires yet. They played day games in the afternoon and explored the city they were in at night. Of the three NY teams the Yankees were at the epicenter of the era. And at the molten core of this era was Mickey Mantle. During the season, Mantle did not have a house in Westchester. Instead, he checked into Room 1414 at the St. Moritz Hotel on Central Park South. He clearly didn’t want to leave the action of the city.

1956 Topps #135

In the mornings, his room no doubt smelled of coffee and wintergreen rub. He probably sat on the edge of the bed and applied bandages around his knee. His knee had been torn during his rookie year, and he played in constant pain. Having stepped on a drain in the Yankee stadium outfield grass. Aspirin was a close companion for a number of reasons.

Once he was up and moving he’d head downstairs to buy a newspaper, and then hail a cab to the Bronx. The ride up to the stadium was quiet, but when the cab pulled up to the player's entrance, kids were waiting with baseballs and paper. Mantle stood against the concrete wall and signed autographs until the clubhouse manager called him inside. It’s hard to overstate the level of fame Mantle experienced. He was Ruthian.

Front row, third from the left.

After the game, the routine reversed. He and Billy Martin changed into suits and went back to Manhattan. Manhattan after dark was a grid of neon, steam from the subways, and jazz coming from basement clubs. The city smelled of smoke and gin. People walked everywhere, and the streets were busy at two in the morning.

Mantle and Martin usually started at Toots Shor’s on 51st Street. The bar was circular and made of oak. It was the living room for sports in New York. If you were anyone in town, you stood at that bar. The room was loud and filled with cigarette smoke. Joe DiMaggio sat in the corner. Sportswriters drank at the same tables as the players, but they kept the late hours out of the morning paper.

Mickey, Toots Shor and Mantle’s wife Merlyn.

From Toots Shor's, they moved east. They ate steak at Danny’s Hideaway, a crowded spot on 45th Street where the walls were lined with leather booths and the waiters knew exactly how the ballpayers liked their meat. If they wanted music, they went to the Copacabana or the Stork Club. The Stork Club had a famous room with a velvet rope where politicians and actors drank Scotch together.

If the night went long enough, they could end up at Bleecker’s. They often took cabs down to Greenwich Village to small bars that did not care about liquor license hours. Before heading back to the hotel, they stopped at the Stage Deli for pastrami sandwiches to soak it all up.

For Mantle, the nights were a way to ignore the pain in his joints and the pressure of playing in New York. Growing up in Oklahoma, where his father and grandfather had both died young. Mantle believed his own life would be short, so he stayed out until the bars closed.

At dawn, he took a cab back to Central Park South, went up to his room, and waited for the sun to come up so he could do it again. But before the following nightfall the back of his baseball card told you how he spent his summer days.

The above photo, written by my father on the back of a Yankee’s Team Photo from 1956.

No Vacancy off Sunset - Golden Era of The Chateau Marmont

I visited the Chateau Marmont on my first trip to Los Angeles 20 years ago. Having first learned about its many over-told tales of Hollywood’s Golden Era and the excess that it spawned, it seemed like a window into another time.

A rainy Saturday night I parked across Sunset Blvd and crossed the street. I walked up the nearly pitch black driveway and past a valet who asked if I needed help getting to where I was going. The incredible lobby was like a castle lit by incandescent lighting that felt more like candlelight. This is not exaggerated, it has a feel like no where else I have been. The servers and staff are aloof in a way that almost feels oddly intentional. This surprisingly carries with it its own level of charm. The paint throughout is a perfect off-white, of which I have never seen an equal. A similar compliment can be said of the breakfast.

Before it became known for debauchery, the Chateau Marmont was built to be an escape from the town around it.

By the late 1920s, Los Angeles was growing fast. The movie business had turned from a small collection of filmmakers into a massive studio system. Developers were quickly building up Sunset Boulevard. Amidst this boom, when a Los Angeles lawyer named Fred Horowitz decided to build something completely different. He decided to construct an apartment building that looked like a castle more at home in the French countryside than in Hollywood.

The Original Letterhead Logo.

Horowitz traveled to France for inspiration and returned to LA with a blueprint for a fortress. He picked a steep, quiet hill at the edge of Laurel Canyon. At the time, the spot sat just outside the official boundary of the Los Angeles Police Department—a detail that would come into play in the future.

The Chateau opened in February 1929 as the city’s first luxury, earthquake-proof apartment complex. Built with thick poured concrete and plaster walls, it was designed to block out noise and neighbors. It also offered total privacy. A single entrance led straight to an underground garage, meaning residents could take the elevator directly to their rooms without ever walking through the lobby.

The apartments had high ceilings, arched windows, and views of the valley. But the timing was not ideal. A few months after it opened, the stock market crashed. By 1931, the property was sold to Albert E. Smith, a silent film pioneer. Smith converted the apartments into hotel suites, brought in antique furniture, and let the trees grow high and thick around the property.

The hotel's golden age was defined by this clever design. During the 1930s and 40s, movie studios controlled their actors' lives completely. Contracts had strict behavior rules, and gossip columnists had spies everywhere. If an actor was seen with the wrong person at a Hollywood hotel, their career could be over the next day.

Naomi Campbell on a grocery run.

The Chateau was different. Thanks to the thick concrete walls, sound didn't travel between rooms. Thanks to the garage, people could come and go without being seen. The staff also kept secrets perfectly. Studio bosses started sending their actors there whenever they needed them to stay out of the public eye. That same idea stayed in place for decades and is still in place somewhat today. A celebrity can still avoid attention there, as the staff will make sure they are unbothered. There has always been somewhat of a no photography rule at Marmont.

It became a place for long stays for some and quick trips for others. Greta Garbo lived there in near total seclusion. Montgomery Clift spent weeks in Room 61 recovering from a bad car accident in 1956, completely hidden from reporters. Writers like F. Scott Fitzgerald sat in the courtyard for hours, using the quiet space to work on screenplays.

MM keeping watch.

When you look at the Chateau Marmont from the street today, it still looks out of place, a white castle sitting on a California hill. Its history is in the silence it provided when early Hollywood was at its busiest. It was built to keep the outside world out, and for a long time, it has done exactly that.

I would recommend staying there at least a night or two. The pool and outdoor areas are worth the cost of a room alone.

Notes From the Baseline - An Ode to Tennis Style of the 1960's and 70's

My first real job—outside of a paper route—was as a sports writer for that very same newspaper. For quite some time I thought that was what I wanted to do with my work life. This was before the advent of the internet as the primary news source and before I learned how little sports reporters made.

One of the early events I covered was tennis. While hardly as glamorous as the era and athletes covered here I still enjoyed it a great deal.

There was a time when the tennis was played at a different tempo, dictated entirely by the weight of the wood racket in a player’s hand. Before tennis became an exercise in ballistic force, it was a discipline of a well placed ball and fundamentals.

“This is the grip that Rod Laver used. Are you familiar with Laver?” - Richie Tenenbaum

At the center of that world stood Wimbledon, a place of rye-grass and an unyielding white canvas. To see the Center Court at SW19 in July then had to feel like looking at a landscape of strict aesthetic borders. The grass was trimmed to a precise fraction of an inch, the lines were chalked by hand, and the spectators sat in the covered stands clad in linen and club blazers. The court itself was alive; it changed color over the duration, wearing down from a rich, deep green to a dusty, brown as the spikes of the players tore the turf.

On that shifting surface, the game belonged to a generation of men who treated athleticism as an extension of good form. There was Rod Laver, the quiet left-hander from Queensland, whose forearms were built from years of wrestling heavy timber frames through the humid air. Laver moved across the lawn with a clipped, economical grace, using a flick of his wrist to drop the ball precisely where the low-skidding grass would render it unreachable. A decade later, Björn Borg would anchor himself to those same baseline brown patches, his long hair held back by a headband of Fila branded terrycloth. He uncoiled a heavy, looping topspin that seemed to defy what a wooden racket was engineered to do.

The weapons of that era required an accuracy that modern graphite has rendered obsolete. Whether it was the Dunlop Fort favored by the traditionalists, the Wilson Jack Kramer, or the pale, laminated ash of Borg’s Donnay, these rackets were close cousins to wood furniture. The racket heads were small, not much larger than an open palm, leaving no margin for error. If you struck the ball an inch outside the sweet spot, the vibration traveled directly into the bone of the wrist. Players strung their frames themselves, pulled to tight tensions that hummed like violins. The wood was susceptible to the weather; a humid afternoon could warp a frame, and players stored them in heavy wooden presses, tightened down with wing nuts, to keep the heads true.

There was a functional elegance to the clothing that moved across the lawn. Sportswear had not yet been overtaken by synthetic meshes, high-tech plastics, or loud, corporate branding. It was an age of heavyweight cotton piqué, cream-colored cable-knit sweaters that carried the weight of real wool, and shorts tailored with the discipline of trousers. Fred Perry and René Lacoste designed these clothes to solve the practical problem of moving freely on a hot day, and the result was a uniform that looked just as correct on a London train as it did on the court.

When you look back at old films of those tournaments, the sound stays with you. There is no high-pitched screech of sneakers on hardcourt or the hollow, metallic pop of a composite frame. There is only the low, rhythmic thwack of a ball meeting the racket, followed by the soft slide of canvas shoes on wet turf. It was a harder game to play well, but it was a more human one to watch.

Precision of the Past: A Brief Study on Vintage Heuer Stopwatches

Before the modern era, a single name dominated the world of high-stakes racing timekeeping: Heuer.

For anyone who appreciates mechanical engineering, racing history, or mid-century design, there is an area of the horological world that offers incredible history without the heavy price tag of a vintage wristwatch: Heuer stopwatches.

These were never pieces of jewelry; they were rugged and accurate tools designed for a single purpose—to capture split seconds of human achievement. Here’s a look into the history of the brand and why their vintage stopwatches are the sought-after collectibles today.

1970’s Highbeat Clubmaster Stopwatch. For Sale in Navigator Archive Vintage Shop.

Founded by Edouard Heuer in Switzerland in 1860, Heuer didn't want to only make common pocket watches. Edouard was obsessed with the concept of measuring split-time intervals.

In 1887, Heuer patented the oscillating pinion, a mechanical breakthrough that allowed a chronograph to start and stop instantly with the push of a button. It was a milestone so inspired that major watchmakers still use a variation of it today.

By the mid-20th century, under the leadership of the companies namesake Jack Heuer, the brand became synonymous with motorsport. Heuer sponsored Formula 1 teams, built the dashboard timers for rally cars, the stopwatches hanging around the necks of pit crews, and the timing equipment used in the Olympic Games. When it came to precision, Heuer was the gold standard.

Jack Heuer showing a collection of stopwatches.

Holding a 1960s or 70s Heuer stopwatch can take one’s imagination to standing trackside at Monaco or Le Mans. These devices were used by racing legends and pit bosses to clock lap times. They represent an era where mechanical creations and human reflexes determined the winner of a race.

Heuer stopwatches are a master class in functional design. They are famous for their high-contrast dials, bold typography, and iconic color palettes. The stark black-and-white of the multi-dial track models, the brilliant red accents on a yachting timer, or the textured, military-grade black finish on the outer casings, these pieces look impressive on display.

Heuer’s Swiss manufacturing heritage is rooted in the precision-driven culture of Saint-Imier and later Biel, regions at the heart of Swiss watchmaking. Operating out of these hubs since 1860, the company combined rigorous Old World craftsmanship with cutting-edge industrial innovation.

By subjecting every component to exacting Swiss engineering standards, Heuer transformed simple timekeeping into an art of extreme mechanical reliability, cementing Switzerland’s reputation as the undisputed global epicenter for professional timing equipment.

Classic Design of the original Land Rover Discovery

My parents brought us to the Auto Show in Chicago in the 90s, which was memorable as all days in a major US city were for a kid from a mid-size town. I liked cars, but I was much more interested in sports and other typical kid activities. I remember walking around looking at futuristic concept cars that seemingly every automaker at the time had. The 90’s were inevitabley a time of looking forward if for nothing more than the coming of a new millennium in a few years.

Maybe it was from having been raised in a house that had more antiques and original artwork in it than technology. But I was always fascinated by objects that had a classic design ethos. Several decades later I don’t remember the vehicles I saw that day. I do however remember one: the Land Rover Discovery. I remember standing there watching the adventure themed promotional videos at the Land Rover display. I was impressed by the off-road prowess that was shown on the screens around the Land Rover booth.

Photo by Commonwealth Classics

The Discovery navigated through what looked to be the Amazon jungle and the deserts of Africa. One video showed the vehicle passing through a river with water up to the windows. I don’t know if I knew what or who Land Rover was before that day, but I did after.

While many modern SUVs are designed in wind tunnels to look like polished round gems, the Series I and Series II Discovery were penned with a ruler and a vision of exploration.

One of the more defining aspects of the silhouette feature was the stepped roofline. This wasn't a stylistic flourish, it was a functional necessity to provide stadium seating for rear passengers, ensuring everyone had a view of the trail ahead. Stadium seating in a modern SUV is fairly impossible to imagine. That, combined with the "Alpine lights"—thin windows curved into the roof edge—the Discovery felt airy and expansive, a stark contrast to the tight interiors of its peers.

The design philosophy of the 90s-era Discovery was defined by a specific kind of British pragmatism: it was sophisticated enough for the city, but was fundamentally shaped by the wilderness. The Discovery avoided the tough posturing of modern trucks, opting instead for a look that was intellectual and purposeful.

The Business End of the Land Rover Discovery.

The Discovery didn't hide its ruggedness. The exposed hinges on the rear door and the chunky, easy-to-grab door handles (designed to be used while wearing thick gloves) were badges of honor. It was a function influences form philosophy that felt authentic because the vehicle actually possessed the capability its looks promised.

It was this honesty and the refusal to be anything other than a boxy, capable, and thoughtful machine that allowed it to age with more grace than almost any other SUV of its era.

I still get excited when I see one of the few left on the road, out in the wild.

Baseball Road Trips and The Last Summer of the Century

With the coming of spring and beginning of the baseball season thoughts of baseball stadiums of yesteryear enter my subconscious. One of the stadiums that does this most often is old Tiger Stadium in Detroit. The stadium stood just before the western edge of the downtown and was designed in the classic jewel-box style.

Property of the Detroit News

Many stadiums were built using this style, as space was at a premium and stadiums were located in dense urban areas. Teams built parks that worked around the surrounding area instead of buying everything around and leveling it. Tiger Stadium formerly known as Navin Field, Bennett Park, Briggs Stadium was no different. The architecture utilized a double cantilever style that made use of poles and support beams throughout. This meant that the second deck was incredibly close to the field, unlike modern parks. It also meant the entire stadium was fully enclosed without an open back drop of the city behind it.

The intersection of Michigan and Trumbull is a somewhat quiet place now, but for ninety-odd years (1910-1999), it may have been the loudest patch of dirt in Detroit. Tiger Stadium didn't ask for affection; it earned it through a stubborn, industrial utility and nostalgia. It was a place made of steel rivets, dark concourses, and a field that looked impossibly green by midsummer.

As a kid, I was always fascinated by the stadium and liked the look of it in pictures. I always planned to attend a game there. When it was announced that 1999 was the last year the stadium would be in use I knew I had to get to a game. Mid-way through the summer it was now or never. I bought two tickets for a game the last week it was open. This happened to be the final week of September.

Tiger Stadium near twilight. Property of the Detroit Free-Press

My plan was to drive the five hours to arrive at game time, and drive back after the game was over. I was 19 years and one day old and had never been to Detroit, nor made a roadtrip of this distance before. I arrived to the Corktown neighborhood about 30 min before game time. I parked about five or six blocks west near the massive and then abandoned Michigan Central Station. I didn't know then that it was formerly a train station but it was the first thing I saw getting out of the car. I said to the person I went to the game with “that building doesn’t have a window in it.”

Corner of Michigan and Cochrane

Detroit seemed like another world. One I knew very little about and might as well have been the moon. Some 27 years later that night still seems like a dream in my mind. Walking through the then crumbling neighborhood and seeing the stadium that only previously existed to me in pictures was surreal. The late summer golden hour light and the beautifully aged stadium seemed like a Time Machine to baseball’s past.

Thinking back on it now, the stadium and the century were both running on fumes. As was my youth, I look back on all three fondly now.

Haunted By The River - Norman Maclean

Like Norman Maclean I grew up on a river. Unlike him, I didn’t appreciate this blessing until I was much older.

There’s a specific kind of ache that comes with reading Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It. It’s not the loud, sobbing kind of grief; it’s the quiet, persistent hum of a Montana river at twilight—the kind that makes you realize you can love someone completely without ever truly understanding them.

Property of Univ. of Chicago.

Maclean’s novella is a masterclass in what stays unsaid. It’s a story wrapped in the technicalities of fly fishing, but at its core, it is a meditation on the limits of our ability to help the people we love most.

From the outset there is much conversation about the four-count rhythm of fly fishing. Maclean writes about the technicalities of the Blackfoot River with a precision that would comparable to that of a watchmaker. But for the Maclean family, fly fishing wasn't a hobby—it was a discipline that was as important as any other element of education.

In their early 1900s family, to fish poorly was to live poorly. To be beautiful on the water was a way of reaching for grace in a young country that, more often than not, handed out tragedy.

The heart of the story is the relationship between Norman, the book’s author and narrator, and his younger brother. Paul was a brilliant fisherman, a charming risk-taker, and a man vibrating with a self-destructive energy that no one in his family knows how to ground.

We all have a Paul in our lives—that person who is undeniably gifted but fundamentally unreachable. Maclean captures the specific agony of watching someone you love drift toward a waterfall and realizing that your hand isn't long enough to save them.

"It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us."

Norman Maclean’s life was defined by a long, quiet wait. Born in 1902 and raised in Missoula, Montana, his early years were split between his father’s strict Presbyterianism and the rugged wilderness of the Rocky Mountains. Before entering academia, he worked for the Forest Service, logging and fighting fires—experiences that gave his eventual writing a physical and calloused authenticity.

For forty years, Maclean was a distinguished professor at the University of Chicago, specializing in Shakespeare. It wasn’t until his retirement in 1973 that he finally sat down to write. His late start meant his words were stripped of ego. It felt like a seasoned woodworker’s final project—sanded down and built to last. He died in 1990, leaving a legacy that proved some stories require a lifetime of living before they are ready to be told.

Decoding the Calculus of John Coltrane

As music goes, there are those who play notes and those who attempt to dismantle the physics of sound. John Coltrane belonged to the latter camp. Almost uniformly referred to as "Trane," he was a person of quiet and scholarly intensity whose evolution from a dependable sideman to a radical musician remains one of the most legendary transformations in jazz history.

Property of Navigator Archive

Listening to Coltrane is to witness a man in a state of rehearsal. He was a musician who viewed the saxophone not as a trophy to master, but as a tool of possibilities. Coltrane is certainly affixed to the Mount Rushmore of Jazz, if one existed.

Photo by and property of Francis Wolff

"I've found that you've got to look back at the old things and see them in a new light." — John Coltrane

Coltrane’s early tenure with Miles Davis revealed to audiences a player who was highly gifted. While Davis mastered the art of the silence between notes, Coltrane seemed intent on filling every gap. No moments left blank. By the late 1950s, this manifested as "sheets of sound"—a dense, style toward improvisation. He would stack chords and scales with such velocity that the melody seemed to blur into a single texture.

Property by and property of Jim Marshall

This wasn't for the sake of applause. It was a technical obsession. In his landmark 1960 album Giant Steps, Coltrane navigated progressions so complex they functioned like a mathematics. He was testing the limits of what the Western twelve-tone scale could endure before it fractured. It makes you wonder if audiences were ready for it, seems they were.

The mid-1960s marked a shift from the technical to the visceral and raw. With the release of A Love Supreme, Coltrane moved away from the "geometry" of hard bop toward a meditative language. The album is considered a masterwork. The music became less about navigating obstacles and more about sustaining a singular, focused intensity.

His late-period exploratory output—often labeled "Free Jazz"—offered with traditional structure entirely. To the uninitiated, these recordings can sound like chaos; to Coltrane, they were an attempt to reach a universal frequency. He was searching for a sound that could express the human condition without the mediation. It was a stripped-back, raw pursuit of truth that prioritized the honesty of the sound rather than polish.

The Timeless Elegance of Gianni Agnelli

In the mid-twentieth century, while industry was busy building for the future, Gianni Agnelli was busy perfecting the art of living. Known in Italy as L’Avvocato (The Lawyer), the Fiat patriarch didn't just manage an empire; he curated a visual language that remains the gold standard for masculine elegance. He was the ultimate practitioner of sprezzatura—the hard to define, Italian quality of making a unique personal style provocation look entirely accidental.

The most widely published photo of Agnelli. Property of Getty Images

To study Agnelli’s approach is to understand one truth: true dignity doesn't come from following rules, but from mastering them so completely that you can afford to ignore them.

Agnelli’s aesthetic was built on a foundation of bespoke tailoring from London’s Saville Row. He never allowed his clothes to wear him. He possessed a rare and dignified wit that manifested in what many would call studied negligence. And what some would call elegance.

His most famous detail, wearing a wristwatch over his shirt cuff—was an original example of slight rebellion. It made you curious as to if the man’s time was too valuable to be obstructed by a layer of clothing. This eccentric detail showed a disregard for the traditional rules of getting dressed. Another habit of his, leaving the collar buttons of an Oxford shirt undone, or wearing rugged hiking boots with a bespoke suit was a trademark. He proved that a man could be the most compelling person in the room without being rigid.

Property of Getty Images

Beyond the location of his watch, or his occasional preference for denim-on-denim, the core of Agnelli’s style was authenticity. He moved through life with a natural style that made a double-breasted suit look as comfortable as a second skin. He understood that clothing was the background for his personality and character. A reflection of his travels, his preferences, and his passions.

An aging Agnelli. Property of the Agnelli Estate

For the contemporary man, the lesson isn't about copying the quirks. It is about the courage to be oneself. He showed us that style is a byproduct of confidence; that a tie draped over a pullover or a slightly rumpled linen jacket can be more sophisticated than the most sharply cut tuxedo. Only provided it is worn with a straight back, sharp mind, and charasmatic charm.

None of it however works without well-made and well-fitting garments. And none of it looks good without a rather outsize level of self-assuredness either.