Relaxed Fit

"I think I make masculine clothes that have enough edge that even a fashion guy can find enough to push him," John Varvatos says, "but it's not so much that every piece has to be in your face." At right, clothes from his fall line. (Helayne Seidman For The Washington Post; Right: By Lucian Perki)

Varvatos has a fragrance, grooming products and accessories such as shoes and small leather goods. He has won awards, opened four of his own stores (the closest is in New Jersey) and dressed celebrities such as Usher and Tom Cruise. Recently he launched a women's collection, but so far it lacks the sophistication of his menswear line. It tries a little too desperately to be sexy. But it's only a couple seasons old. And Varvatos already appears to have gotten over an early fascination with miniskirts and go-go boots.

"His fit is what really makes him appealing. It's not a European fit; it's for an American body. American men tend to be larger -- whether it's from working out or not," says Roseanne Morrison, men's fashion editor for the Tobe Report, a retail consultancy. "He has a wonderful color sense. They're masculine colors, but beautiful. He understands you don't have to scream at customers at that price range."

The few Washington gentlemen who had heard of Varvatos before arriving at Saks used words such as "earthy" and "masculine" to describe his work. They admired his mix of colors and subtle textures and said that he is able to give simple lines personality and character. "It's perfect for this type of crowd," says Jeff Becherer, a lawyer who lives in Dupont Circle.

Varvatos is the great hope of the American menswear industry. He's the guy with the best chance of being the next big thing. He is a pure fashion designer, not a celebrity dabbling in fashion. He is not a music producer, marathoner, get-out-the-vote activist, entrepreneur. "He is primed to be a major brand," Morrison says.

If Varvatos succeeds, it will mean avoiding the pitfalls of hubris, poor quality, missed deadlines, lousy fit and esoteric styles that killed or wounded the menswear businesses established by Isaac Mizrahi, Donna Karan and John Bartlett. It will mean avoiding corporate battles, such as the one that disenfranchised Joseph Abboud from his namesake label. (The designer only recently returned to the brand in a limited capacity.) Success will require a clear understanding that in menswear the cult of personality offers limited returns.

Varvatos was walking through the menswear departments of Barneys New York in 1999 on one of his regular missions to suss out what others in the industry are doing. "Everybody was trying to be Prada or Jil Sander," he says. At the time, Varvatos was in charge of design for the Polo men's line. He was content at Ralph Lauren, but somewhere between the country squire style of Polo and the much copied minimalism of Sander, Varvatos felt he could offer something distinctive.

He launched the brand later that year as a division of Nautica. Last year, Nautica was purchased by VF Corp. Since then, the John Varvatos brand has been in a tricky position -- it is the odd high-end collection in a publicly owned company geared to the mass market.

Over the years, Varvatos has let several New York fashion seasons pass without mounting a runway show. One season he was invited to present his collection in Florence at a menswear trade exhibition. Another season, he simply opted out. Shows are expensive and for a small company, they are a tremendous strain on manpower. Last year, Women's Wear Daily estimated his wholesale menswear volume at $30 million. Ideally, someone with deep pockets would come along, buy the brand and take it private.

"The best of all worlds is to buy it myself," Varvatos says, but such high finance is out of his reach.

Sitting in his office in Manhattan last fall, Varvatos animatedly described the time he met Lamont Dozier -- part of the prolific Motown songwriting team of Holland-Dozier-Holland -- and gave an impromptu review of his latest musical discovery: rhythm and blues singer Ricky Fante. In his office, a large Jimi Hendrix poster dominated one wall. The image is all thick cigarette smoke, red lights and big Afro. "At the root of everything I do, music has always been much more important to me than fashion," he says. "Jimi Hendrix was always my idol. I love the whole music, rock connection."

Varvatos keeps his dark hair clipped short and offsets it with well-groomed stubble. He has a calm voice and a demeanor that is pleasantly confident. He lacks the operatic quirks of many designers. He has not crafted a veneer of aloofness, hyper-perfection or eroticism. Mostly, he stays out of gossip columns. He is engaged and has two adult children.

On this day, Varvatos was wearing a 1979 Jethro Tull T-shirt with his own velvet blazer, jeans and distressed leather boots. The T-shirt is not something he paid too much for in a trendy used clothing shop but a souvenir he got the old-fashioned way, by going to the concert. "It still fits," he says. "It fits differently. Back then it was baggy. Now, it's slim."

A lot of designers say they are inspired by the music industry. The result is usually some terrible collection that resembles a teenage boy's beer-soaked vision of life as a rock star. Inevitably, glitter, feathers and reptile prints are involved. One recalls a particularly wrong-headed Tommy Hilfiger collection from 1999. The most searing image involved sparkly belt buckles the size of dinner plates that read "Tommy Rocks."

But Varvatos's work is not emblematic of a musician's ostentatious look. Instead, it reflects the emotions that music can stir. He taps into the feeling of cool independence that a man might have when he pounds out the bass line to his favorite rock anthem. His clothes give a man a whiff of the sex appeal that seems to rise like steam from any number of jazz musicians who are wearing nothing more interesting than a black leather jacket and a sly attitude.