The Tie That Wouldn't Bend
In 1967, a twenty-seven-year-old necktie salesman walked into the buying office at Bloomingdale's — "the hottest store in America," he would later call it — carrying a collection of handmade ties that were wider than anything on the market, cut from fabrics nobody used for neckwear: rich repps, bold prints, luxurious silks that belonged on upholstery, not under chins. The buyer liked them. He would take them, he said, on two conditions: make them slightly narrower, and remove the designer's own label from the back, replacing it with the Bloomingdale's name. The young man — born Ralph Lifshitz in the Bronx, renamed Ralph Lauren at sixteen, possessed of no formal design training and no capital beyond a single drawer in a shared showroom in the Empire State Building — wanted the sale badly. Bloomingdale's was the center of the retail universe, and he was nobody, a kid from Mosholu Parkway who had been selling gloves and suits for other people his entire working life. He said no. He walked out. "I thought my legs would crumble," he recalled more than fifty years later, telling the story to a roomful of Wall Street analysts. Six months passed. Then Bloomingdale's called back and said yes — on his terms, with his label, at his width. "Had I changed that tie," Lauren told the crowd, "I would not be here today."
That moment — a broke young man refusing the biggest retailer in Manhattan because the compromise would have erased his name — contains the entire architecture of what would follow: the Polo empire, the Rhinelander Mansion on Madison Avenue, the 17,000-acre ranch in Colorado, the $14,000 alligator handbag named after his wife, the Gulfstream, the fleet of vintage cars, the Presidential Medal of Freedom. All of it flows from the conviction that the thing you are selling is not a product but a world, and that a world without your name on it belongs to someone else.
By the Numbers
The Ralph Lauren Empire
$7.1BAnnual global revenue (fiscal 2025)
~$15BTotal annual retail sales across all channels
1967Year Polo was founded with a line of ties
17,000Acres at Double RL Ranch, Colorado
30+Ralph's Coffee and restaurant locations worldwide
$465.4MIPO proceeds from 17.9M shares sold, June 1997
2025First fashion designer awarded Presidential Medal of Freedom
Mosholu Parkway and the Education of Desire
The Bronx in the 1940s and 1950s was a sorting machine for immigrant children, a place where the sons and daughters of people who had fled pogroms, famines, and fascism were given the raw materials of American life — public schools, stickball, the subway — and left to assemble an identity from whatever they could find. Ralph Lifshitz, born October 14, 1939, was the third of four children in an Ashkenazi Jewish family that had come from Belarus. His father, Frank, was an artist who painted houses for a living — a man who understood color and surface but earned his wages applying other people's choices to other people's walls. His mother, Frieda, had reportedly hoped Ralph would become a rabbi.
He became something stranger. As a teenager in Mosholu Parkway, where the neighborhood divided neatly into teenage gangs — the "rocks" in black leather jackets, the "preps" in crewneck sweaters and penny loafers — Ralph belonged to neither tribe and both. He mixed army fatigues with tweeds. He studied the screen movements of Fred Astaire and Cary Grant the way other boys studied batting averages. Calvin Klein, who grew up in the same Bronx neighborhood, later recalled: "When I was a child in the Bronx, I would see him and think, 'Who is this person? Who dresses like that?'" At sixteen, Ralph and his brother Jerry changed their surname to Lauren — the teasing at school had become intolerable — while another brother, Lenny, kept the family name. It was a small, deliberate act of self-authorship, the first of many. The boy who would build an empire on the fantasy of inherited American elegance began by inheriting nothing and inventing everything, starting with his own name.
He attended Baruch College in Manhattan, studying business at night while working sales jobs during the day. A brief stint in the Army. Then a position at Brooks Brothers, that cathedral of Ivy League propriety, where the young Lauren did not design but sold — absorbing, through the daily handling of button-down oxfords and regimental ties, a tactile education in what quality felt like and what aspiration looked like when it was draped over a man's shoulders. He would later write, in a rare autobiographical moment: "I loved the oldness, the custom mood of navy blazers, school crests, rep ties, flannels, and saddle shoes." The kid from the Bronx did not merely admire the wardrobe of the American aristocracy. He memorized it. And then he improved it.
A Single Drawer in the Empire State Building
The mythology of American enterprise is thick with garages — Hewlett and Packard's in Palo Alto, Disney's uncle's in Los Angeles, Bezos's in Bellevue. Ralph Lauren's origin story is more compressed than a garage. It is a drawer. One drawer, in a shared showroom, in the Empire State Building, from which he sold his first ties under the name Polo in 1967.
The name was a calculated act of aspiration. "It had that vaguely English sense to it," he explained in a 1983 interview. Polo — not baseball, not basketball, not any of the sports a kid from the Bronx would have actually played. Polo: the game of princes and Park Avenue, of riders on horseback with mallets raised, of a world so rarefied that most Americans had never seen a match and couldn't name a single player. Lauren chose to name his company after a sport he had never played, in a country whose aristocracy he was not born into, and the audacity of the gesture was itself the product. He was not selling ties. He was selling the permission to imagine yourself as someone who might, on a Saturday in Greenwich, attend a polo match.
His employer at the time was Beau Brummell, a tie manufacturer whose president, Abe Rivetz, listened to Lauren's pitch to design his own line and delivered a verdict that belongs in any anthology of catastrophic misjudgments: "The world is not ready for Ralph Lauren." Lauren convinced Rivetz to let him try anyway, and with ties that were wider, thicker, and more expensive than anything on the market — made from fabrics that made established buyers uneasy — he went door to door. In his first year, working from that single drawer, he sold $500,000 worth of ties to Paul Stuart, Neiman Marcus, and eventually, after the standoff, Bloomingdale's. By 1968, he had secured his own in-store shop at Bloomingdale's — a rarity for a designer so new — and incorporated the business as Polo Fashions, Inc. A $30,000 loan helped him expand into a full menswear line. In 1970, he won the Coty Award for men's design, the industry's highest honor at the time. He was thirty years old.
I wasn't going to change the ties, and I didn't, and I walked out. I thought my legs would crumble.
The speed of the ascent obscures something essential about the nature of the bet. Lauren was not, in any conventional sense, a fashion designer. He had no training at Parsons or FIT. He could not sketch. He did not drape fabric on mannequins or construct patterns. What he possessed instead was something rarer and more dangerous: a vision so complete and so internally consistent that it functioned as a kind of gravitational field, pulling products, stores, advertising, and eventually an entire lifestyle into its orbit. The ties were not the business. The ties were the first sentence of a story he intended to tell for the rest of his life.
Dressing Gatsby, Becoming Gatsby
In 1974, Ralph Lauren dressed Robert Redford for Jack Clayton's film adaptation of The Great Gatsby. The clothing came from Lauren's current line — not custom-made for the film but pulled from the racks, as if Jay Gatsby himself might have wandered into a Polo showroom. The tweed suits, the cream-colored Oxford shirts, the linen trousers — they looked as though they had always existed in that lost, elegant world of West Egg, because Lauren had designed them to evoke exactly that world. The film itself was a critical disappointment. The clothes were not. Overnight, the Ralph Lauren look stopped being a designer preference and became a cultural reference point, a visual shorthand for a particular kind of American romance: the yearning of the self-made man for the grace and ease of old money, the persistent belief that you can reinvent yourself so completely that even the past submits to your version of events.
The parallel between Lauren and Fitzgerald's creation is almost too neat, and Lauren, a man of sincerity rather than irony, seems never to have been troubled by it. Gatsby invented himself out of nothing, and the invention destroyed him. Lauren invented himself out of the Bronx, and the invention made him one of the richest self-made men in America. The difference, perhaps, is that Lauren understood something Gatsby did not: you cannot just attend the party. You have to own the house, design the furniture, choose the lighting, arrange the flowers, and sell tickets to the guests. Control everything, and the fantasy becomes indistinguishable from reality.
Three years later, he dressed Diane Keaton for Woody Allen's Annie Hall (1977), and the effect was, if anything, more significant. Keaton's character — the slouchy blazers, the men's vests, the oversized khakis — became one of the most imitated looks in American fashion history. Keaton herself later said: "His closet was kind of like my closet. He loved the way women looked in men's big jackets and sweaters and lots of layers." Lauren, characteristically, deflected the credit. "He always emphatically stated that she was me and her style was my style," Keaton recalled. "Actually it was all Ralph."
The twin film triumphs established a pattern that would define Lauren's approach to marketing for the next five decades: he did not advertise fashion. He cast a movie. Every campaign, every store window, every runway show was a set — a narrative tableau in which the clothes were not the subject but the setting, and the customer was invited not to buy a garment but to step into a scene. As Paul Goldberger, the architecture critic and Lauren's friend, observed: "Come into my movie, buy a piece of this life. As opposed to just a piece of clothing."
The Mesh Shirt and the Architecture of Ubiquity
In 1972, Lauren introduced what would become his single most important product: a short-sleeved mesh cotton polo shirt, available in twenty-four colors, embroidered with a tiny emblem of a polo player on horseback, mallet raised. The shirt cost more than its competitors. It was not technically innovative. Its design was a variation on the tennis shirt that René Lacoste had popularized decades earlier. And yet the Lauren polo shirt would become one of the most widely worn garments in the history of American clothing — a piece so ubiquitous that it transcended fashion entirely and entered the realm of cultural infrastructure, the way Levi's jeans or Converse sneakers did before it.
The genius was not in the garment. It was in the logo. That tiny horseman, no larger than a postage stamp, did more work per square centimeter than perhaps any other emblem in commercial history. It communicated, in a single image, everything Lauren wanted his brand to mean: sport, wealth, tradition, ease, the English countryside as filtered through an American optimism that refused to acknowledge class boundaries. You did not need to play polo, or know anyone who played polo, or have ever seen a polo match, to wear the shirt. You needed only to want the life the logo suggested — and who, looking at that little rider, galloping across your left breast toward some unseen finish line, could resist?
The shirt also solved a problem that had bedeviled American designers for decades: how to make menswear aspirational without making it threatening. Lauren's polo shirt was the safest garment in America. It was neither too formal nor too casual, neither too expensive nor too cheap, neither too fashionable nor too dowdy. It was, as one retail executive put it, "like buying a Maytag" — an established brand that stood for reliability and quality. "Buying Ralph is like buying a Maytag," said Hal Reiter, president of Herbert Mines Associates, who owned six pairs of Ralph Lauren trousers and two of his suits. The comparison, though intended as a compliment, reveals something Lauren would spend the rest of his career trying to reconcile: how to be both an appliance and a dream.
By the 1980s, the Polo brand was generating an estimated $1.3 billion in annual retail sales. Lauren's personal wealth was estimated at $300 million. He and his wife Ricky — born Ricky Ann Loew-Beer, whom he had married in 1964, a union that would prove to be one of the most durable in an industry notorious for destroying marriages — shuttled by private jet among homes in New York, Colorado, and Jamaica with their three children: Andrew, David, and Dylan. The family appeared in his advertising. They were the living proof of the world he was selling.
The Mansion on Madison
In the mid-1980s, Lauren acquired the lease on the Rhinelander Mansion at 867 Madison Avenue, a Beaux-Arts limestone townhouse built in 1898, and spent a reported fortune renovating it into the flagship store that would become the physical embodiment of his brand. When it opened in 1986, it was unlike anything the retail world had seen. It did not look like a store. It looked like the home of someone impossibly wealthy, impossibly tasteful, and impossibly organized — a fictional aristocrat whose library was always dusted, whose silver martini shaker was always polished, whose closet contained exactly the right number of cashmere sweaters in exactly the right shades.
The Rhinelander Mansion was not merely a retail space. It was an argument. It argued that clothes were inseparable from context — that a navy blazer hanging on a chrome rack under fluorescent light was a different object than the same blazer draped over a leather club chair beside a crackling fireplace with an old painting on the wall above. The environment did not support the merchandise. The environment was the merchandise. You could buy the blazer, yes, but what you were really buying was a piece of the room, a fragment of the life that the room implied.
Jerry Seinfeld, a comedian who would become one of the most famous men in America, captured the psychology of the moment: "I remember the jeans and the cologne. Everybody was wearing that. It was very aspirational for me at that time. I was completely broke for most of the seventies and eighties. So it was just, you know . . . it was, like, when you made it, that's what you would buy."
The store marked a turning point in Lauren's relationship with the retail industry. For years, he had griped that department stores did not display his clothes with sufficient elegance — that they crammed Polo next to lesser brands, under lighting that flattened the colors and destroyed the mood. The Rhinelander Mansion was his answer: if they would not present his vision properly, he would present it himself. It was the beginning of a slow, decades-long shift from wholesale dependence to direct-to-consumer control that would ultimately define the company's survival strategy in the twenty-first century.
A Brain Tumor, a Ranch, and the Expansion of the Dream
In 1987, Ralph Lauren was diagnosed with a benign brain tumor. He underwent surgery to have it removed. He was forty-seven years old, at the peak of his powers, and the brush with mortality did what such brushes often do to ambitious men: it intensified everything. The work became more urgent. The vision expanded.
The expansion had begun earlier — in 1978, with the launch of fragrances (Lauren for women, Polo for men), and in 1983, with an extensive home furnishings line that would eventually include pillows, throws, bed and bath products, furniture, and household paint. But after the surgery, the pace accelerated. Lauren seemed determined to leave no surface of American domestic life untouched by his aesthetic. If you could sleep on his sheets, eat off his plates, sit on his furniture, paint your walls with his colors, and then dress yourself in his clothes, you were no longer merely a customer. You were an inhabitant.
Around the same time, he and Ricky purchased property in the Colorado uplands near Telluride. It would become the Double RL Ranch — nearly 17,000 acres, "bigger than Manhattan," Lauren liked to tell visitors with a grin. The ranch was named for Ralph and Ricky, and its existence served a dual purpose: it was the private sanctuary of a family that, despite enormous public visibility, maintained an almost ferocious privacy, and it was the living laboratory for a new aesthetic direction. The Double RL line, launched in 1993, drew on the iconography of the American West — worn denim, Navajo blankets, hand-tooled leather, the romantic ruin of frontier life — and added it to Lauren's repertoire of aristocratic Anglophilia and East Coast prep. The cowboys on the ranch tended a thousand head of cattle, whose meat would eventually be served at The Polo Bar in Manhattan and whose hides would be crafted into boots and bags for the RRL collection.
I'm really proud that I went to my own beat, that I didn't sell out. I've always had a sense of self; I never wanted to be part of the crowd.
The ranch completed something in the Lauren mythology. Here was a man who had begun with the fantasy of English aristocracy and the American East Coast elite, and who had now absorbed the American West as well — not as a costume but as a lived experience, or at least as close to a lived experience as a billionaire fashion designer flying in on a Gulfstream could achieve. The clutter on his desk — tiny cowboy boots, tin robots, toy cars, vintage model airplanes — told the story of a man who collected not wealth per se but the artifacts of his own imagination, the physical evidence that the dream could be made real.
Going Public, Staying Private
On June 11, 1997, Polo Ralph Lauren Corporation began trading on the New York Stock Exchange. Lauren sold 17.9 million shares at $26 a share, raising $465.4 million — but retained a majority of the voting rights, ensuring that the company's creative direction would remain under his control. Goldman Sachs, which had invested a minority stake in 1994, managed the offering. The company that had started with a drawer full of wide ties was now a public corporation valued at billions of dollars.
The IPO was a critical juncture, and Lauren navigated it with the same instinct he had shown at Bloomingdale's thirty years earlier: take the money, keep the power. The dual-class share structure meant that outside shareholders could participate in the financial upside but could not dictate strategy, creative direction, or the fundamental character of the brand. It was, in essence, the Bloomingdale's negotiation at industrial scale — Lauren saying, once again, that the name on the label was non-negotiable.
The years that followed were years of extraordinary expansion. The first RL Restaurant opened in Chicago in 1999, adjacent to the store on Michigan Avenue. Ralph's opened in Paris in 2010, in the converted courtyard and stables of the company's Boulevard Saint-Germain store. The Polo Bar debuted in Manhattan in January 2015. Lauren was no longer selling clothes, or even a lifestyle. He was selling hospitality, creating physical spaces where customers could eat, drink, and sit inside the world his advertising had always depicted. The restaurants served the same function as the Rhinelander Mansion: they argued that the brand was not a brand at all but a way of living, complete and self-sustaining, from the burger on your plate to the boots on your feet.
By the early 2000s, the Polo Ralph Lauren Foundation had been established, funding cancer research (a cause close to Lauren after his own health scare) and literacy programs. In 1999, Lauren donated $13 million to the Smithsonian Institution to help preserve the Star-Spangled Banner — the original flag that had inspired the national anthem. It was a gesture of such patriotic grandiosity that it could have seemed absurd, except that from a man who had built a multi-billion-dollar business on an idealized vision of American life, it felt inevitable. Who else would pay to save the flag?
The Discount Trap and the Frog in the Pot
Success, in the fashion business, contains within it the seeds of a particular kind of failure. The more people want your brand, the more stores want to carry it. The more stores carry it, the wider your distribution. The wider your distribution, the more tempting it becomes to create lower-priced lines for lower-tier retailers. And the more your products appear on clearance racks at T.J. Maxx, the less anyone believes you when you say the word "luxury."
Ralph Lauren fell into this trap in the 2000s, and the fall was protracted and painful. In 2007, Fortune reported that Lauren was developing American Living, a new moderately priced line exclusively for J.C. Penney. Simultaneously, the company was pushing further upscale with flagship stores in Tokyo and Moscow. The question Fortune posed — "Can he really sell all things to all people?" — was, in retrospect, less a question than a warning.
The answer, delivered over the next decade, was emphatic: no. Sales and profits declined after nearly uninterrupted growth since 1967. The brand's luxury bona fides eroded slowly, like riverbank soil in a steady current. By the mid-2010s, Ralph Lauren products were fixtures at discount chains — J.C. Penney, Kohl's, T.J. Maxx — and the welter of overlapping sub-brands (Polo, Lauren, Chaps, Denim & Supply, Rugby, Club Monaco, RRL, Purple Label, Black Label, Blue Label) was confusing customers and diluting the central promise. As Patrice Louvet, who would later become CEO, described it: "You say we will do a little bit more, it'll be fine, then yet more the next quarter, and you keep dialing it up. Until one day, like a frog that's been boiled gradually, your brand equity dies."
In September 2015, Lauren announced that he was stepping down as CEO, though he would remain as executive chairman and chief creative officer. Stefan Larsson, a former H&M executive, was brought in to run the business. The marriage lasted barely a year. Larsson and Lauren clashed over the direction of the company — the fundamental tension between a founder's vision and an operator's efficiency — and Larsson departed in 2017. The episode underscored a truth about founder-led companies that is easy to state and exceedingly difficult to manage: the brand is the founder's taste, and any CEO who attempts to override that taste is not running the company but destroying it.
The Rescue: Patrice Louvet and the Return to the Source
Patrice Louvet arrived at Ralph Lauren in July 2017 from Procter & Gamble, where he had spent thirty years rising through the ranks of the consumer goods giant, most recently as group president of global beauty. He was sixty-one years old by 2025, French-born, bespectacled, partial to immaculate navy suits from Purple Label and natty pocket squares. He came from a world of toothpaste and razor blades, and he would arguably save the most important American fashion company from obsolescence.
Louvet's strategy, unveiled in 2018 under the name "Next Great Chapter," was simultaneously radical and conservative. Radical because it required pulling out of more than a thousand U.S. department stores — two-thirds of those where the brand was present — and shutting down cheaper labels to focus on the higher-end offerings. Conservative because the intellectual foundation of the strategy was, essentially, to go back to the beginning: to treat Ralph Lauren as the luxury company it had always been before the discount fever set in. "Ralph founded this company as a luxury company, and what we needed to do was go back to this mindset," Louvet told Fortune.
The results were striking. The average price for a Ralph Lauren item doubled in ten years. Far fewer items ended up in the discount bin. The company shifted from a wholesale-dependent model — at the mercy of department store buyers and their clearance racks — to a business that was more than 70 percent direct-to-consumer, controlling its own stores, its own website, and its own narrative. Ralph's Coffee, a venture that would have seemed absurd in the era of J.C. Penney collaborations, expanded to more than thirty locations worldwide, with customers lining up around the block. The brand's fashion credibility, which had seemed mortally wounded, recovered.
What Louvet understood — and what Larsson, for all his operational skill, apparently did not — was that his job was not to replace Lauren's vision but to create the conditions for that vision to be expressed at its highest level. "It's my job to create the conditions for my team to be successful," Louvet said, describing his philosophy. "If I do that well, I'll be fine." He framed his approach as "servant leadership" — a term from the management consultancy playbook that, in this context, carried a specific and unusual meaning: the CEO serves the creative founder, not the other way around. The relationship worked because Louvet genuinely deferred to Lauren on matters of taste and brand expression while exercising rigorous discipline on matters of distribution, pricing, and operational efficiency. As of September 2025, the company's "Next Great Chapter: Drive" plan projected revenue growth at a compounded annual rate of mid-single digits through fiscal 2028, with operating profit growth exceeding top-line growth. Shares were near all-time highs.
There are a number of levers you can pull to continue fast growth that you can convince yourself are not problematic. You keep dialing it up. Until one day, like a frog that's been boiled gradually, your brand equity dies.
The Family and the Succession
Ralph Lauren married Ricky Ann Loew-Beer in 1964, three years before he sold his first tie under the Polo name. More than sixty years later, they are still married — a duration so unusual in the fashion industry that it almost functions as a design statement in itself, a piece of evidence that the stability and warmth depicted in Lauren's advertising is not entirely imagined.
David Lauren, the middle of their three children, joined the company in 2000 after a detour through media — he had founded Swing magazine as a Duke undergraduate in 1994, built it to a circulation of 200,000, and watched it fold in 1998. He traveled to Vietnam, Cambodia, and China with a backpack, then came home and, at his father's invitation, tried working at the family company "for at least a year." Twenty-five years later, he is chief branding and innovation officer and vice chairman of the board, overseeing global marketing, digital content, and the company's technology partnerships. He launched ralphlauren.com in 2001, making it one of the first luxury brands to sell online. His older brother, Andrew, became a film producer. His younger sister, Dylan, opened Dylan's Candy Bar, the largest candy store in the world.
"As a kid I never really thought of my father as a famous designer nor did I think about money or fashion in a big way," David has said. "My father was not a party person nor did he go out to fashion industry events. We really led a life about family. A real life." The portrait that emerges from interviews with and about the Lauren family is of a household that was simultaneously enveloped in the brand and insulated from the industry — a family that appeared in the advertising but did not attend the society dinners, that lived inside the world Ralph had created but treated it as a home rather than a set.
The question of succession — what happens to a company so thoroughly identified with a single individual's taste that the SEC filings open with a full-page photo of him on horseback — is the defining strategic challenge of Ralph Lauren's next chapter. David Lauren's expanding role suggests one answer. The "Next Great Chapter: Drive" plan, with its emphasis on institutional capabilities and systematic growth, suggests another: that the company is being architected to survive the eventual absence of its founder by embedding his aesthetic DNA so deeply into the organizational culture that it can be reproduced without him. Whether that is possible — whether a brand built on one man's instinct can outlive that instinct — is a question the fashion industry has answered, historically, in both directions. Chanel endured. Halston did not.
No Irony, No Apology
There is no irony to Ralph Lauren. That may be the most important thing to know about him, and the thing that makes him most difficult to write about in an era that treats sincerity as a character flaw. As Paul Goldberger observed in Vanity Fair: "Lauren isn't trying to live in the past. He's trying to get the past to live in the present, which takes a lot more chutzpah, because to make it work you have to get other people to sign on to your fantasies. No one — well, no one since
Walt Disney — has done a better job of that than Ralph Lauren."
The Disney comparison recurs throughout the literature on Lauren, and it is worth interrogating. Both men built empires on the commercialization of innocence. Both created immersive worlds — physical environments in which the customer is enveloped by a unified aesthetic vision. Both were accused of sentimentality, of selling a sanitized version of reality that erased the messy, the ugly, the contradictory. And both answered the accusation the same way: with their balance sheets. "I try to give people a clean, aspirational quality, with no bullshit," Lauren told Fortune in 1996. "Where's the negative in that?"
The negative, critics would argue, is that Lauren's vision of America — the silver martini shaker, the preppy sweater, the polo match, the ranch — is a fantasy of whiteness, of privilege, of a class structure that the country has never fully acknowledged and that Lauren, the son of Belarusian Jewish immigrants, was never born into. The accusation has a certain force. But it also misses the deeper point: Lauren did not reproduce the American elite. He edited it. He took out the drunkenness, the decay, the cruelty, the boredom, and left only the surfaces — the patina without the rot, the elegance without the exclusion. His version of American life was, as the Washington Post noted, an environment where "the clutter has a gloss" and "if a rugby shirt on his runway has a bit of grime, it was patted on before the show." The artifice was the art.
And the market for that art turned out to be astonishingly broad. "You don't have to be a Republican to enjoy dressing like one," Goldberger wrote. Lauren's customer base eventually spanned prep school students and Wall Street executives, hip-hop artists and Midwestern housewives, British aristocrats and Japanese streetwear collectors. Kanye West helped make Polo popular among his fans. Jerry Seinfeld bought his suits.
Oprah Winfrey narrated a video tour of the ranch. The brand became, in the words of the company's own strategic plan, "an inclusive luxury lifestyle brand" — a phrase that would be an oxymoron for almost any other company but that, for Ralph Lauren, described the central paradox on which the entire enterprise was built: luxury that feels democratic, exclusivity that invites everyone in.
In January 2025, at the age of eighty-five, Ralph Lauren became the first fashion designer to receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom. He had already been awarded the Legion of Honour by France in 2010, the James Smithson Bicentennial Medal in 2014, and an honorary Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire in 2019 — the first American designer so honored. The CFDA had given him its Lifetime Achievement award in 1991, its Fashion Legend award in 2007, and multiple Designer of the Year awards in between. He works out with a personal trainer for ninety minutes every morning. He is careful about what he puts in his body. He visits his stores. He watches the customers.
On a blustery August day at the Double RL Ranch, wearing faded blue denim jeans, a white cotton Henley, a matching denim jacket, and grey New Balance trainers, he ushered a visitor inside the Saloon — a log cabin with a wraparound porch and its own private cinema, the screen swagged in crimson velvet curtain like a Vaudeville IMAX, the seats distressed leather club chairs. "It's always like a movie," he said. "It's a movie that tells you a story that I want to express. If you just do clothes, it doesn't mean as much." Through the window, the wind swirled through the thigh-high grass, and the San Juan Mountains held their ancient line against the sky, and the wooden fence that Oprah Winfrey had once commented on stretched toward a horizon that was, in that light, indistinguishable from one of his advertisements.
