The Man in the Mirror: Reginald Stanforth III and the Legacy of Sketches

Reginald Stanforth III was never photographed. But I remember the first time I saw him.  

It was a spring afternoon in Columbia, South Carolina. I was only a few weeks into my first job at the city’s most storied men’s store—still learning the rhythm of fittings and the language of cloth—when Reginald’s father walked in with a young man by his side. Reginald was twenty-one, weeks from graduating college, and carried himself with the kind of quiet gravity that made you straighten your posture without realizing why.

His father, a longtime client, had a simple request: “He needs a real suit. One that will last longer than his diploma.” Reginald said little. He studied the sketches on the wall more than the cloth on the table. When I asked what he envisioned, he paused, then said, “I’d like to be remembered in lines, not lenses.”

That was the beginning.

The First Suit: A Tropical Wool Baptism

It wasn’t bespoke. Not yet. Reginald’s first suit was ready-made—a dark navy solid tropical worsted wool from the back wall of the store, where the light shifted just enough to make the cloth look midnight at noon. The cut was classic: single-breasted, two-button, with notch lapels and side vents. The trousers were pleated—sharp, intentional, and dignified. No flash. No fuss. Just the quiet confidence of a suit that didn’t need to explain itself.

He tried it on in silence—no mirror glances. No theatrics. Just a slow walk to the end of the fitting room, a turn, and a pause. His father nodded. I adjusted the sleeves. Reginald asked one question: “Will it wear well in Charleston?”

It would. Tropical worsted is woven for Southern heat—lightweight, breathable, with just enough structure to hold its shape through humidity and ceremony. That suit would see him through graduation, his first job interview, and the summer weddings of friends who still wore khakis to formal events.

But more than that, it marked the beginning of his relationship with clothing as a means of memory. He never asked for a photo in it—only a sketch. I drew him standing beneath the palmetto shadows, hands in his pockets, the jacket catching a breeze that couldn’t be seen—only felt.

While the original sketch is safely tucked away, a large copy of that sketch still hangs in my studio.

Reginald Stanforth III in 1990

A Legacy in Lines

That first suit marked more than a milestone—it marked the beginning of a shared language. Reginald didn’t just return for garments. He returned for the ritual. For the sketches. For the silence that lives between cloth and conversation.

As my career evolved—from that men’s store in Columbia to private ateliers and eventually the founding of Christopher Turner Couture—Reginald followed, not out of habit, but out of trust. He never asked for photographs. Only sketches. Every fitting became a dialogue in graphite. Every commission is a memory rendered in wool.

He taught me that tailoring wasn’t just about fit—it was about feeling. About capturing a man not as he is, but as he hopes to be remembered.

Reginald Stanforth III was never photographed. But I remember him—clearly, completely—in every line I ever drew.

The Sketches-Only Myth

Reginald’s refusal to be photographed was not eccentricity. It was ethos. “A sketch,” he once told me, “is a memory with manners.” His likeness exists only in the renderings of those who knew him—tailors, architects, hostesses, and the occasional poet. Each sketch is a fragment of his myth. Each garment is a reflection of his restraint.

At Christopher Turner Couture, Reginald’s legacy is more than inspiration—it is a blueprint. Every pleat, every lapel, every cloth selection is filtered through the lens of his imagined preferences. His myth guides our hand. His silence sharpens our voice.

We do not chase trends. We trace lineage.

Client and Clothier, Friends

That navy tropical worsted was just the beginning. Over the years, Reginald returned—not just for garments, but for conversation, for sketches, for silence. Wherever my career took me—from the storied men’s store in Columbia to private ateliers and eventually the founding of Christopher Turner Couture—Reginald followed, not out of habit, but out of trust.

We built a rhythm: he’d describe a moment he wanted to live in, and I’d sketch the suit that would carry him through it. No fittings were rushed. No detail overlooked. He became not just a client, but a collaborator. Not just a collaborator, but a friend.

We spoke in cloth and charcoal. In pleats and pauses. In the language of legacy.

Reginald Stanforth III was never photographed. But I remember him—clearly, completely—in every line I ever drew.

Next Month: Why Reginald Refused the Camera — a deeper look into his philosophy of privacy, permanence, and the romance of imperfection.