Field Survey

From top to bottom, a good start.

    Now that Memorial Day (in the US) has passed, any of the largely ignored restrictions regarding seasonal colors and materials are lifted.  White, cream, pastels, linen, raw silk, straw—these shouldn’t look out of place for the coming months.  This is particularly true of outdoor occasions, where whatever reluctance might remain in combining some of the above is assuaged by the prospect of standing in the grass with a Pimm’s.  Nevertheless, the garden party—for our purposes, a social gathering that takes place on or in the vicinity of a lawn—presents additional challenges to those who care about clothing and comfort.  

    I understand women have a whole genre of shoes specifically designed not to aerate the lawn, from flat sandals to stubby and flanged kitten heels.  A different concern lurks for men: moisture.  Grass, when green, is wet stuff, even if following several days without rain.  A prolonged stay sole-deep in the foliage can rather quickly soak through a shoe.  I avoid particularly thin-soled or lightly constructed shoes.  A double-soled monkstrap is good here, or, if you must, a rubber sole in the form of white or dirty bucks.  One word of caution: lighter colored leathers and suedes, spectators, and loafers with twill vamps are susceptible to grass stains.  

    That damp grass creates another problem: ground humidity.  I almost melted once at a charity benefit in mid-weight cotton drill trousers even though it was only in the mild mid-seventies.  If it is sunny, the relative humidity on the lawn will increase sharply.  Instead of cotton, a porous, lightweight wool or linen works better.  The former disperses the damp heat, the latter, at the expense of wrinkles, permits evaporation.  The most important aspect to a trouser in these conditions is porosity; any tightly woven cloth is going to allow rising humidity in without providing much of an escape.  The result is like being stewed from the waist down.  

Porosity is when you can see the garden through your trousers.  

    Porosity is important for your upper half as well.  A shirt in a cool-wearing open weave is important.  Royal oxford is a good compromise between comfort and opacity.  Voile is very cool but is fairly sheer—a problem for those with darker chest hair.  Your jacket should be made of one of the previously mentioned trouser cloths.  I say one of because, depending on the formality of the event, you’ll either be in a suit or odd elements.  Lightweight wool, especially something textured like Fresco, goes well with linen and, it could just be my imagination, but odd jacket and trouser combinations just seem cooler-wearing than suits.  

    Finally, if the sun is truly out, a straw hat is indispensable.  This can seem counterintuitive as it is another layer and the inside band might stick to your forehead.   But there are far worse symptoms of an exposed melon: a higher body temperature, the need to squint, sunburn.  If your head feels hot, simply remove your hat for a few moments and let evaporation do its thing; this will afford an opportunity to display your dexterity in the juggling of cocktail, hat and brow-mopping handkerchief. 

Foulard-y

Notice how the foulard on the left, with its two-color geometric arrangement, appears slightly more serious than the three-color floral pattern on the right.  

    Among the collection of cheap regimentals, novelty and sock ties that were part of my elementary school rotation was a cache of hand-me-downs in neat little patterns.  These had come from my brother’s wardrobe—cast-offs, I suspect, as the 1980s moved from the prep ideal to the more exuberant expressions for which the decade is usually remembered.  I wore them sparingly, savoring the lively hand and pleasing arrangements of color: robin’s egg and cream on a buff ground, or silver and pine layered on deep navy.  Years later I learned these were foulards, not exactly an exotic style of necktie, but a classification that still manages to evade most people’s immediate grasp.

    I think the word—foulard—and its complex associations are to blame.  As one might suspect, the origin is French, but past that etymology becomes foggy.  The most credible theory suggests the term is related to fulling—a traditional process of cleaning and thickening common to many textiles.   In any event, foulard, then and now, is a quality silk twill that, because of its even consistency, responds well to dye—particularly small set patterns in two or more colors.  And this is where the trouble begins: the latter becomes conflated with the former and the result is metonymy—foulard means to various people silk twill and/or any silk with a small repeating pattern.   Further confusing things, to the French a foulard is a silk scarf (think Hermes’ famous prints), but that same fabled house refers to its men’s iconic print ties not as foulards, but silk twills.  

    Don’t be discouraged though; foulards (for our purposes neatly printed silk neckties) are worth whatever linguistic hurdles they present.  While I adore hefty woven silk ties, cashmere, challis, grenadines and knits, I occasionally flirt with offloading them all in favor of a well-edited collection of sensible foulards.  Somehow neatly printed silk strikes the most consistent chord: tidy, unpretentious, rich, sober, endlessly versatile.   That last characteristic is especially important: by varying the scale or number of colors in a foulard, the effect can be dramatically altered.  Large patterns in complex color arrangements are casual—better with flannels and tweed and perfection with dress-stripe shirts.  Neater patterns limited to two colors, say small silver florets arranged on a navy ground, can seem quite formal—even effectively standing-in for more formal woven ties.  

    The pursuit and acquisition of fistfuls of foulards can be foolhardy though.  The effect of wearing one is so consistent as to make a vast wardrobe of foulards unhelpful.  I’m not in the habit prescribing numbers of things, but I imagine half a dozen foulards in various scales and in similar color combinations of navy, red, green, light blue and buff would be enough to avoid monotony.  You will have chosen correctly if, in a dozen years or so, they are discovered by someone and still hold their appeal.

A foulard, made significantly less serious by vibrant colors and a busy, non directional floral motif.  

Finish with Cream

Replacements, this time in a lovely Holland & Sherry cream linen.

    My favorite off-the-rack trousers I have ever worn were a linen and cotton blend in a relatively trim Italian cut.  They aged wonderfully, acquiring tufted edges with the softness of silver-belly felt.  I wore them to pieces, had them stitched back together and patched over, and wore them to pieces once more.  Though loved, time persevered and it was with sadness at the start of this spring that I decided they would be removed from my rotation.  Mandatory and permanent retirement to my wife’s sewing scrap box, I’m afraid.  

    After a barely tasteful period of mourning, I set about thinking just what made those trousers beloved so as I may replace them as quickly as possible.  Was it the cut?  Not likely; they were noticeably slimmer through the leg and lower rise than what I prefer.  Was it the cloth?  I don’t think so; cotton/linen blends tend to be a compromise between coolness and wrinkle resistance, achieving neither any better than when apart.  The necessity of a belt left me cold, as I prefer side adjusters, and the zipper, for one reason or another, was prone to jams.  That left color—cream.

    It suddenly was clear: cream trousers are practical!  Of course this contradicts almost every sage piece of advice in the book, from avoiding things that are memorable to favoring colors that effectively mask the occasional mark.  But it’s difficult to argue with a color that compliments so much; I challenge skeptical readers to suggest a shirt or jacket shade cream doesn’t agree with.  Red perhaps?  Who has red shirts or jackets?  Navy, bottle green, brown, tan, gray, white—cream looks correct beneath any of these.  And though some may object, I think both brown and black shoes are complimented by a cream cuff.  

    As anyone who has asked for a room to painted “white” knows, shades at this end of the spectrum are infinite and challenging to pin down.  Some creams are yellower than others, some are near white.  Few look like fresh cream.  Names (bone, mayonnaise, pith, ivory, tallow) while charming, aren’t much help.  Then there is the matter of type of cloth; cream linen has different qualities to cream flannel or gaberdine.  The only advice I can offer is to look at many and set aside those to which you are continually drawn.  For me the right cream is luminous with a glowing, happy character that reflects a lively light.  Simple really.

    There is one hot question amongst all this zeal for cream though.  What about gray—that traditional all-purpose trouser color?  As excited as I am about my revelation, I would not part with any of my cherished gray trousers.  Which probably means cream trousers should be considered a finishing touch to your trouser wardrobe.  Here is the distinction as I see it: cream is the useful  off-the-clock counterpart to the far more serious gray trouser.  Or, if preferred, expressed in a snappy little pneumonic: 

Work needs gray;

Cream needs play.

Learn Your Stripes

From left to right, pin, dress and hair stripes.

    The other day during a final fitting for two warm weather but very different suits, I commented how well an evenly striped shirt seems to navigate a broad spectrum of colors, cloths and patterns.  Chris Despos, breaking from his careful evaluation of sleeve length, agreed that a shirt wardrobe packed with that type of stripe is very versatile.  But what is that type?  What width?  What colors?  What weave?  Stripes seem a familiar enough concept, but the moment a preference needs to be established an unwelcome portal is opened to the infinite and confounding reality of striped shirting. 

    Language, particularly when figurative, is part of the problem.  To help parse the vastness of the genre memorable names have been assigned to some of the more familiar stripes.  Some of these terms have documented histories; a butcher's stripe mimics the bold stripes found on the traditional aprons of London’s butchers, which, in turn, is said to have been inspired by the butcher’s guild coat of arms.  But many are rather fuzzy: a university stripe seems to be nothing more than a candy stripe, and what precisely constitutes a bengal stripe?  I now and again run across a useful guide, but the problem, of course, is that no real standardization exists.  And why should it?  Let a thousand flowers bloom etc., no?

Dress stripes with a small-patterned foulard: fool-proof.

    I do have a very strong preference for one particular stripe.  The one I was wearing during the fitting the other day is often known as a “dress stripe,” which, if it must be put into words, is a narrow (1/16’’), evenly alternating white and colored (shades of blue, typically) stripe in a plain weave.  Read that again.  It’s no surprise the term dress stripe is preferred, even if some vagueness is invited with its use.  

    If varying scale is really the golden rule behind combining patterns, the above dress stripe, or some slight variation, derives its greater versatility from its unique scale.  It is small enough to read as a solid (or semi-solid) from even a few feet away, but any closer and it is a bonafide pattern.  Crucially though, the same scale is rarely found in jackets, suits or ties and so remains small enough not to conflict with a larger scale pattern.  In other words, jackets and ties tend to feature patterns either larger or much smaller in scale, framing the dress stripe without conflict.  With six dress stripe shirts and as many foulard ties, one could dress confidently in the dark for days on end.  Perhaps that’s the origin of the name?

    Finally, be prepared that insisting on a particular width, repetition, weave, shade and number of colors will make you seem unreasonably particular.  So be it; getting what is most versatile, is, for me, the only way to justify the higher cost of having shirts made.  And while understanding why certain patterns are more versatile is helpful, I have learned the following general principles that should help to quickly determine preferences within the infinite variety of striped shirting.  

Dress stripes demonstrating versatility, working equally as well with a repp double stripe tie.  

 Don’t trust colorful names: one man’s bengal is another man’s butcher’s (and that's without considering awning and barber’s stripes).

 The more white or the paler the stripe color, the subtler the shirt.

 Conversely, the bigger and/or bolder the stripe the more casual the effect. 

 Evenly spaced stripes are less jarring than unevenly spaced stripes. 

 Stripes in colors other than blue produce very memorable shirts.  This is not always desirable.

 Multi-stripe shirts with stripes in different widths and colors are for experts; proceed with caution.

 The most useful shirting is probably a mid-blue and white dress stripe.

Look Book

This handsome binder contains all manner of notes, from the sensible (versatile topcoats) to the humiliating (shorts).

    For at least a week, my daughter will not tolerate socks following a summer of sandals and canvas slip-ons, nor will she suffer short-sleeved pajamas when visiting the tropics in the midst of winter.  I can commiserate: there is something particularly unpleasant about putting one’s layered traveling clothes on following a holiday in the sun, and I always feel half naked the first day I step outside in shirtsleeves alone. 

    And yet one of the great pleasures in cultivating a wardrobe is dressing correctly for the weather, and by extension, seasonality.  Nothing quite gets me studying extended forecasts like the prospect of that first brisk day when tweed can be worn.  The same goes for summer, when a breezy 70 is good enough for most linen enthusiasts.  But this principle works in reverse too.  I can barely stand the sight of even my favorite knits come March.  In fact I protest those straggling, unseasonably cold days by reducing my outer-wear rotation to a single uninsulated Barbour from the Ides on, weather be damned.  And come September, suddenly self-conscious of exposed ankles, I have more than once run home to put on socks.

    For the clothing enthusiast, timing is crucial.   A cynic might suggest vanity as the reason, but I suspect a fear of appearing uninformed is also at play.  Of course only someone with similar interests would ever possibly notice that a tweed is worn too early or a linen too late.  Nevertheless, one of the more satisfying moments for an enthusiast is when a purpose-built garment is poised for a seasonal event and its deployment confirms the genius behind its creation.  The challenge is that great ideas for future garments are always forged during the season, and if not commissioned right away for the following year, must wait, a twinkle in the eye, until the opposite season.  In plainer terms: it’s easy to forget what is needed when the weather isn’t cooperating.

    I recommend keeping a journal.  So clear can an idea be during a warm alfresco dinner, or a chilly autumn walk, that I can crisply picture the finished article right down to the buttons.  But if I haven’t made any notes, the proposal seems grown over with vegetation and indistinct by the time seasonal orders should be placed.  Consulting notes has another benefit: they serve as a litmus.  Has your practical tweed cape idea lost some of its brilliance since last winter?  Do unlined ivory suede oxfords seem less important these days?  

    In the wrong hands, this sort of record might prove embarrassing, particularly if, like me, you are given to detail.  But detail is what is needed, so you must either gird yourself for the humiliation or find a good hiding place.  Those near to me already know of (but perhaps don’t understand) my curious interests, so I scribble without fear of exposure.  At the moment I have several good ideas aging in my notes, and this being an open and forgiving forum, I have bravely transcribed them below.  I would be flattered to hear from my readers.

 1)  Double breasted (light) tweed odd jacket in navy with grey windowpane (or reverse).  Possibly with patch pockets and in four-button-two configuration.  Possibly weird buttons.  

 2)  Mahogany (or other reddish brown) pebble-grain derbies in two- or three- eyelet configuration.  Plain toe—possibly squarish.  Double soles?  Natural edge?

 3)  Overcoat of heavy grey herringbone, the wider/bolder the better.  Single or double breasted?  Generous cuffs, and large, convertible collar.

The collection of swatches is inevitable.  Candidates for the herringbone overcoat and double-breasted tweed projects can be seen to the left and right.  

Bathing Costumes

Navy trunks: why other colors exist is another of man's great mysteries.

    Many men rely upon a gigantic watch with depth dials and tidal indicators (that go unused) as the default attempt at style when beach-bound.  At the other extreme: sarongs.  It wasn’t always this way; resort styles for men were big business not so long ago, and while we might not bemoan the disappearance of the male romper, there is little consolation in exuberantly printed board shorts and undershirts.  I find the previous evening’s shirt worn with the sleeves rolled and several buttons undone is a good compromise, but as a genre, things could stand to improve.

    For years the standard advice for trunks was to avoid elasticized waistbands in favor of fixed buttons or snaps.  But like so many of the familiar nuggets of wisdom shamelessly passed between men’s style outlets, this one sounds better in print than it functions in reality.  The theory is that elasticized waistbands cut into the wearer, exaggerating any unsightly excess flesh.  Of course if real love handles are in play, then the composition of the waistband matters little in their display.  Flat-stomached men can get away with either fixed or elasticized, but I've witnessed enough fixed waistbands straining at the seams to wonder if elasticized is the better option after all.  Plus, if swimming, surfing, diving or anything more rigorous than lounging is on the agenda, an elasticized band with a good drawstring is always preferable.  In a solid color or semi-solid pattern, and with a leg that finishes above the knee, trunks can be quite flattering.  

    Turkish toweling, or terry, if you prefer, is limited to oversized bath robes these days rather than the shorter length and occasionally patterned beach robes seen in vintage adds.  This is a pity; what could be more useful at a resort or seaside club than an easily shed jacket-shaped towel with patch-pockets and a belt?  Cover-ups are almost always required between pool, beach and bar, and certainly within hotel lobbies.  All the putting-on and taking-off of your polo means it quickly pulls out of shape, and if your trunks haven’t any pockets—well what then?  The best I’ve ever seen is my Father’s: deep navy terry, with wide, corduroy wales, three patch pockets and a notch lapel.  Perfection.  Why no one makes these any longer is one of man’s great mysteries.  Suggestions for where to have such a robe made are welcome.

    The last time I was in Spain, perhaps following too much rosado, I was coerced into buying a pair of espadrilles.  I had visions of wearing them to cocktail hour at resorts and back home to casual daytime gatherings.  Sadly, I found they chaffed, slipped about polished floors like ice-skates, and most disappointingly of all, were stifling.  If a pair can avoid those pitfalls, espadrilles might be the ideal beach-side solution—far better than the ubiquitous flip-flop in its ability to go from beach to lobby to cafe.  I have instead resorted for several years to a sand-and-surf-battered pair of plimsolls.  They started life white, but, like flamingos that spend much of their time eating shellfish in the shallows, have turned that tell-tale shade of pink—a surprisingly versatile color for casual footwear. 

Just don't stand on one leg.

Glorified T-Shirts

A white or off-white polo is indispensable during the season.  Keeping them that way is another matter entirely.  

    Part of the difficulty with truly casual garments is that they are worn for active pursuits and laundered accordingly.  One’s general shape might remain the same, but a favorite pair of wash-and-wear beach slacks might, one day, and for no particular reason, just not fit well enough to make the coming season.  Where tailored clothing molds to the figure, casual garments tend to morph away from one’s shape with time.  

    The most frustrating example is the polo shirt.  I have never bought a new one that fits perfectly from the start.  Indeed, if it did, I would likely return it to the rack for fear of shrinkage.  I expect to wear my polos for real activity (zip-lining above the jungle canopy, and/or, squash).  Given this sort of use, and the necessary laundering, most polos become handkerchiefs by the end of a single season.  

    This is a pity, as the polo shirt, when good, sits alongside the tuxedo in terms of masculine style.  Bad ones—like poor tuxedos—can be clownish.  But a well-fitting, properly detailed polo is a style magnifier, conferring a sporting élan to its wearer—a clear message of action and propriety.  But it must be worn in the spirit of real active-wear to deliver its charm.  If you get: “your t-shirt has a collar,” congratulations, you are doing it correctly.

The dark navy polo: up there with the well-cut dinner jacket.  

    The details count enormously, though.  Cotton jersey makes particularly poor polos; the collars wrinkle and collapse and the effect becomes more polo-shaped-t-shirt than anything else after only a few outings.  The addition of silk, modal or linen can improve body, but the moment the results need dry-cleaning they are, in my book, disqualified.  My preference is for finely woven cotton pique for its ability to breathe, resist wrinkles and, when mated to ribbed collars and sleeve bands, retain a certain crispness throughout its life.  The seams should be durably stitched, and the armscyes must be high and curved for comfort during movement.  I like the simplicity of two buttons at the neck; these permit two settings—lunch, and aperitifs.  

    Speaking of styling the polo, how and where it should be worn is a matter of vehement debate.  For me a polo is strictly sportswear, like a bathing suit or a pair of plimsolls.  In the US, however, perhaps helped along by the corporate aesthetic and, of course, golf, the polo has somehow ascended the formality scale.  Mostly it’s found uncomfortably jockeying about the  tortured business casual category, but I must admit, I’m occasionally drawn to the idea of an unstructured jacket worn over a polo.  This is the domain of the expert though—the villainous yacht-owner or the swarthy seductor.  The safer rule is far simpler: if sports are in the immediate past or future, a good polo will do nicely.

Casual Encounters

In case all the usual details aren't quite enough, the laces on these suede tassels are braided. 

    The language of loafers is definitely more exciting than for any other category of shoe.  Oxfords rank themselves in mundane fractions: quarter brogues, half brogues, full brogues.  Derbies permit more color with the prospect of agatine eyelets and storm welts.  But loafers bristle with possibility, and for each variant there seems an exciting name: venetian, penny, full strap, tassel, beef-roll, moccasin, horse-bit, kiltie.  

    Perhaps casualness encourages experimentation by both the consumer and the producer—a sort of chicken-or-the-egg scenario where both parties are willing to indulge an urge to flout convention.  Interesting origin stories exist for specific styles, and great energy has often gone to try and organize the menagerie into a formality matrix.  But I wonder if the real joy in loafers has as much to do with perceived rankings and history, than it does with two other familiar principles of style:    nonchalance and versatility.  

    If one were to blindly bang together a shoe for the very purpose of breaking dusty old rules, it might look something like a tasseled loafer.  What are they other than ordinary loafers that have been adorned with a complex, non-functional lacing system finished in a square knot and fringed ends?  And yet the result confers nonchalance to the wearer like few other articles in the male wardrobe.  One of the principles of that masculine wardrobe is that the more decorated an item is, the less formal it tends to be; yet tassels, mysteriously, register as dressier loafers according to most authorities, perhaps seen with suits more than any other casual shoe.  Executed in dark suede, the effect sends seriously mixed messages: dark but textured, fussily trimmed yet appropriate, rakish yet conservative.  This beguiling mixture is perhaps what placed tassels in the wardrobes of style icons like Cary Grant, and still sees them worn by leaders of both fashion and classical style.

In direct sunlight, these full-straps lean more Beaujolais than Burgundy.  .  

    Versatility, by contrast, might not possess the same obvious allure as nonchalance, but I’ve always viewed it as a shortcut to personal style, enabling light packing and confident deployment.  Color is perhaps the most important aspect to versatility, and in this regard the family of dark reds—from light burgundy to deep oxblood—are difficult to beat for their ability to adapt to whatever they accompany, whether charcoal worsted or faded denim.  Any reasonable loafer in one of these shades is going to be versatile, but something with a little detail, like a full-strap penny, is bound to quickly become a favorite.  The full-strap design, in particular, has something sporting about it—a whiff of functionality that, if the toe-box has remained slim, doesn’t sacrifice any elegance.

    Exciting language aside, loafers do seem to inhabit a particularly sacred place in most men’s wardrobes.  I can trace my admiration of the genre to battered Weejuns worn through grade school.  I wouldn’t wear that particular style again, but the spirit perseveres through the above two styles, and about a dozen other, colorfully named loafers.

Two-by-Two

The "G" in gabardine stands for goes with everything.

    Something rather interesting occurred to me while discussing odd trousers the other day.  Many men approach wardrobe building with the same goals of efficiency and convenience in mind, but do so in dramatically different ways.  

    The first should be termed the indubitable method.  A practitioner might see a swatch of jacketing or a ready-to-wear jacket he likes, but not be totally convinced until several trouser options are shown alongside.  He then selects the one shade deemed most complementary and buys or has it made.  I understand some men hang the finished trousers with the odd jacket, or even go so far as to have sewn into the waistband a reminder of which jacket they complement lest they be separated.  

    The results are never wrong—a practitioner won’t whiff on an odd-ensemble.  But is he ever really dressed in casual odd elements?  Doesn’t he just posses two-piece suits made of different cloths?  In other words, if the trousers were bought or made exclusively to accompany a single jacket, are they any longer odd?  Personally, I’m afraid to play so fast and loose with the existential underpinnings of menswear.  I’ll leave that sort of reengineering to women who have successfully created the high-heel athletic shoe.

    The other method—the one I prefer—is decidedly less rigid, though perhaps more demanding of its practitioners.  To me, cloth is far more important than precise color coordination, especially when one has grown comfortable with the notion that most odd trousers should be some shade of gray or tan anyway.  This frees things considerably; choosing trousers for summer or winter is as easy as finding a weave and weight that pleases and picking two.    

If your  odd jacket doesn't look right with one of these flannels, congratulations, you've discovered the only one that doesn't.  

    I say this second method is more demanding, but really what’s required is a bit of discipline in selecting those two colors.  Specifically, this means acquiring pairs of lighter and darker shades within the same cloth bunch so at least one of the pairs will contrast well with the intended jacket.  That the lighter and darker options may be made of flannel, gaberdine, whipcord, high-twist, tropical worsted or linen ensures a season-less sort of harmony, while simultaneously alleviating any concern that the final choice is part of a carefully coordinated outfit.  

    This ineffable casualness of trousers which were acquired with versatility in mind can’t, in my opinion, be replicated by wedding single pairs with certain jackets.  But there is another advantage to pairs of light and dark odd trousers in the same cloth: the number needed is far fewer when each pair can work with several jackets instead of only one.  As an admitted advocate of the limited wardrobe and critic of the palatial closet, this appeals. 

The Handsomest Glow

Two of a kind?  No; delightfully different

    Unless you count the occasional Connecticut shade cigar (my physician doesn’t), I do not smoke.  I am drawn to the paraphernalia though.  After your first, it’s difficult not to covet other vintage hotel ashtrays, though how many quirky soap dishes are necessary?  An interesting table-top match-strike at least can be used to light candles.  Cigarette cases can be exquisite, but they seem affected when used to carry business cards.  Repurposing often has that effect.

    In contrast, a finely made lighter is a beautiful object to admire and use.  I own two excellent examples that I carry regularly.  They are the same model—the iconic Rollagas by Dunhill—separated by forty years.  I like to put them side by side and study each carefully, quietly noting the small aesthetic differences.  I have recently decided there is more to learn here than immediately meets the eye.  Studying in reverse order of date of manufacture—the late 2000s and the late 1960s—is particularly revealing.

    The more recent of these two lighters is finished in a brilliant palladium.  Unlike white gold or silver, which retains some warmth, palladium has a pure white cast.  Some may suggest the effect is cold; to me it is in keeping with the aesthetic of more formal occasions when, at least for men, color should be limited, if not avoided altogether.  This is the lighter I carry when in formalwear, or short of that, when an occasion is equal parts formal and celebratory and my suit is too.  

    The surface pattern—what Dunhill rather charmingly describes as barleycorn—covers the entirety.  In what must be the engineering equivalent of bespoke pattern matching, the flip-top and body are aligned so precisely that the texture appears uninterrupted.  The corners of the lighter are mitered and the sum effect is brick-like, as if the finished object was hewn from a solid ingot of palladium.  The lighter is heavy for its size; I wonder sometimes if this was a contemporary design choice—a physical reminder that something luxurious inhabits your pocket.  

    The other (and first) Rollagas was a gift to my mother.  For years it languished in some forgotten drawer until, to my astonishment, I discovered it one Christmas Eve.  It was caked with candle wax and lint, and the striking mechanism was jammed.  I had it carefully reconditioned; it returned gleaming and gorgeously patinated.  The gold-plating is worn but not shabby; the mechanics are still responsive but comfortably broken-in; the same barleycorn surface, smoothed with age, feels frictionless, like the polished underbelly of a reptile.

    Obvious design differences abound.  The flip-top cap is untextured, with blunted corners that glide effortlessly in and out of the pocket.  In place of sharply mitered edges, a worn frame subtly delineates the textured planes.  Along with exposed hinges and a rear-mounted flame wheel, this design broadcasts the mechanics more honestly.  The result isn’t clumsy though; perhaps some combination of patina and color is responsible, but this one seems smaller and lighter in the hand.  It is certainly a subtler expression, better suited to ordinary occasions.

    Of course operating either requires the same series of elegant little gestures.   Once fished from a pocket (a lower waistcoat one is ideal) a flick of the thumb pops the cap with piston-activated efficiency.  The thumb then instinctively finds the roller, the deep grooves encouraging that familiar lateral flick.  The flame ignites its mark, and then, as if fed-up by all the grandeur, the index finger takes over, coldly snapping closed the cap with a satisfying, metallic clap.  The point is made especially well when asked for a light; the performance is over in seconds, but the memory burns far longer.

I spy half-a-dozen subtle design differences.  You?

A Pattern Emerges

A herringbone at its subtlest. 

    In addition to having exciting names, variegated cloths, in my experience, make desirable garments.  The distinguishing feature to birdseyes, nailheads, sharkskins and herringbones is that the patterns are a function of weave more than anything else.  This differs from something like a pinstripe or windowpane, in which yarns of a different color contrast with the dominant ground color thereby creating pattern.  Of course a weave-generated pattern can also employ two or more shades, but the effect still tends to be subtle because the scale is small and the density of the contrast high enough that the cloth blends from even a few feet away.

Careful, sharkskins are always sharp.

     This really is what is meant by semi-solid, a confounding expression if I’ve ever heard one.  The term I prefer, variegated, comes with connotations of irregularity, and I think that is correct.  Just as a brick facade might give the impression of a dusty red, random variance in the individual bricks make looking at it interesting.  The eye seems to like recognizing tonal arrangements, particularly when, rather than a flat presentation, some dimension is involved.  Cloth, like bricks, has dimension, and so reflects light in a dynamic way, enticing the eye to steal second and third glances as the effect changes.  Suits in these cloths (particularly at the lighter end of the spectrum) are versatile, tending to look very different from day into evening, seemingly absorbing cues from the surroundings.  In fact, a single-breasted  blue birdseye might be one of the great staple suits.  

    Sadly, the versatility isn't equally distributed.  Herringbones are perhaps alone in so easily crossing between formal and casual applications.  Depending on scale, finish and color, the weave can be found in heavy overcoats, conservative suits, tweed odd jackets—even formal wear.  Birdseyes and Nailheads really only seem to work as worsted suiting, but once made up glide easily from conservative settings to more casual ones depending on shirt, tie and accessories.  They are excellent travel suits for this reason.  Conversely, I can’t imagine sharkskin in anything other than a conservative setting; I’ve seen casual, high-contrast versions, but the effect seems to quarrel with the sober essence of the weave.

A birdseye view.

 Often confused with nailhead, this pindot is a true chameleon, changing from mid-grey in sun to almost charcoal by night.  

    These matters are hard to describe though, and even accurate images won’t honestly convey character.  This is likely why all those apps intended to help coordinate suit, tie and shirt are always a failure; a screen just can’t replicate the liveliness and dimension of real cloth.  Old Apparel Arts issues understood this, often coming with swatch clippings pasted directly to the illustrations.  This is a charming, low-tech solution, but in my experience there is no substitute for spending an hour with a comprehensive cloth book. Just try and keep all those colorful names straight.

The Ethics of Old

A ghost of its former self.  A facsimile of the original oxford, which is now just a white shirt.  Or is it?

    After a decade of frequent wear, my favorite house shoes have yielded.  They were mock Alberts; velvet uppers and a quilted satin interior qualified them as house shoes, but rather than the stiff sole and built up heel typical of the genre, these were softly constructed with suede bottoms.  The Italian luxury bedding name Frette made them; (the Italians really are universally good at making stylish versions of fusty classics).  Nevertheless, and with little ceremony, they were photographed, then binned.  The event made me think though: When is something beyond repair?  

    I usually preach a mend-and-make-do gospel, from multiple resolings to fearless patching.  Frugality, I have learned, can be appealing beyond the long term savings, creating a certain stylishness of its own, particularly when the repaired item is obviously of good quality.  I have been inspired by photographs of well-attired royals wearing obviously mended clothing and shoes.  I even became a vocal advocate of mending things during time spent in the garment care business (admittedly, this made more idealogical sense than business sense as the margins on repairs of this sort are razor thin).  But a limit must exist—a moment in which something silently moves from fixable to forsaken.

    For me, this limit is defined by sentimentality.  An item to be mended must be able to reenter my active rotation.  If I catch myself contemplating a repair to something that will result in a long retirement to some forgotten closet space, I either donate it, or if not suitable for donation, try and recycle it some other way.  My wife’s sewing kit is full of scraps of good cloth, salvaged buttons and strips of leather, which might seem a grisly end, but is so useful an asset as to alleviate any shame.  

    I wonder if there aren’t universal guidelines though—some map for navigating the forked path between mending for reasons of economy and style and the lonely offshoots of sentimentality and shabbiness?  I don’t claim the following to be universal or complete, but here are my criteria:

-Under oath, are you being sentimental, or practical?

-Is the item irreversibly soiled?  Paint-stained clothing is unusable.  If you must paint: coveralls.  

-Is the item too small or tight--even past the point of alteration?  Promises to fit into things are depressing.  Bin.

-Will the cost of repair exceed the cost of replacement?  Persian rugs can be antique; a suit just becomes old and, one day, unusable.  

-Will the repairs significantly alter the appealing character of the original?  This is the test my beloved Italian house shoes failed; glueing all that velvet down would have made them stiff.  

    Of course one can get lost in ideology of this sort too.  My favorite shirt is actually only a metaphysical figment.  It began life as a blue-and white bengal striped oxford, and when the cuffs and collar frayed beyond respectability, I replaced them with new white oxford.  Then the shirt body became thread bare, so I replaced that with the same white oxford.  It is now a white oxford shirt; it is also my favorite old bengal striped oxford.  What I’ll do when this iteration frays I do not know.  Maybe I’ll have it bronzed.

Farewell, my friends!  I shall remember you like this (or if preferred, like new).

Second Skin

Hi there: gloves at the ready.

    The second half of February might seem a tad late to begin a discussion on gloves—sort of like writing about linen when the leaves have already turned.  I wonder though: are gloves really only for the depths of winter?  Between walking dogs, commuting and exploring the city, I spend plenty of time outside and my few pairs of unlined leather gloves are indispensable late autumn through the chilly opening of spring.  

    I don’t understand lined gloves though.  A thin cashmere lining hardly protects fingers from proper cold, and yet changes entirely the chemistry of glove wearing. Wallets are inoperable with lined gloves.  Worse, they don’t fit rakishly into the breast pocket of overcoats and tweed odd jackets.  Some might suggest silk lining, but the slight increase in insulation is hardly worth the extra cost and reduction in dexterity.  When it is really cold, I’m afraid the only response is the mitten—hardly dashing, but very effective, particularly if made of densely piled shearling.

    Unlined gloves have other advantages, both practical and stylish.  Remarkably, most unlined gloves seem to work with touch-screens.  There’s likely science behind this; all I know is a well-cut unlined glove looks much better than those nylon things with mesh fingertips.  You will also be able to access your pockets with a hand closely gloved in leather where a bulky lined glove would clumsily  have been removed in the past.  This is where style comes in.  Just as a good shoe closely follows the line of the foot, making it appear slim and elegant, so too does a well-cut unlined glove compliment the hand.  This is especially true of finer-grained leathers, like capeskin (sheep), that have a little gloss to the surface.

    Speaking of materials, I strongly suggest seeking out unusual skins.  Peccary—the hide of a smallish wild pig—is very handsome with its recognizable follicle pattern.  The leather is supple but almost indestructible; not refined, but ideal for casual gloves.  Deerskin is curiously strong too; it is light in weight compared to other leathers and some say warmer.  Real kidskin is very luxurious but rather expensive.  Suede is another favorite, especially in charcoal and dark green. Chamois is good too, although you will have to field questions about why your gloves are pale yellow.  (The best answer: because my glove maker was out of pale pink.)

    Finally, there are all sorts of arcane rules about the formality of the various leathers and shades outlined above.  I have no real opinion here, although obviously darker gloves tend to be better at night and lighter ones during the day.  Cream or parchment-light versions seem like a good idea, but always look like costume pieces.  On the other side of the spectrum, black gloves are about as exciting as rubber overshoes.  Reddish browns, tans, grays and greens seem to look good with all sorts of things without matching any of them—which is ideal for an accessory.  In fact when spring finally does appear, and your unlined gloves have become like a second skin, you’ll wonder what to do with your suddenly rather naked hands. 

Three of a kind: from left, peccary and crochet, hand-stitched deerskin, chamois.

Laced with Loyalty

The gold standard: Wallabees.  

    Oxfords are indispensable, and what would warm weather be without the loafer?  I’m also particularly fond of those transitional shoes that straddle echelons of formality becoming at once more versatile while remaining slightly off—like monk-straps.  Heavily soled derbies, a variety of brogues, pebble-grain boots, suede chukkas and quilted house shoes all find use in my rotation too.  But there is one shoe that goes uncelebrated: the knockabout shoe.  Sundays are for knockabout shoes.

    A knockabout shoe must be comfortable and efficiently put on and removed.  But the list of qualifying characteristics ends there; what defines this category of footwear is more about what a knockabout shoe isn’t.  Jodhpur boots in suede can balance beauty and  casual ruggedness; they are no more knockabouts as are patent pumps with little silk bows.  Similarly, a knockabout shoe is not just a retired good shoe; any trace of luxury or elegance would betray a noble birth.  The charge of a knockabout shoe is far more challenging: it must be both disposable and precious, deriving the latter from the former.  A knockabout shoe is purpose-built for its thankless station.

    The boat shoe is probably the most common example.  White, non-marking rubber soles suggest sport; the oily leather uppers seem at home beneath cotton trousers.  Socklessness is required.  They are equally invisible and familiar—a difficult compromise.  Boat shoes are not ideal though.  Winter is a challenge.  And the nautical—and by extension, yacht-club—pedigree have dislodged boat shoes from knockabout status as of late, placing them somewhere on the fashion spectrum.  

    White- and dirty bucks are very good candidates.  Versatile, relatively shapeless, certainly not serious, the buck could once be found stamping around campuses and cities as reliably as the athletic shoe is today.  They suffer similar afflictions as the boat shoe (seasonal, fashionable) although perhaps to a lesser extent.  Sadly, bucks struggle beneath an additional problem these days: retailers have conflated them with real dress shoes, charging accordingly, some even several hundred dollars a pair.  This is grounds for immediate disqualification as a knockabout.

    A canvass version of a buck in some neutral color, as can be seen in vintage ads floating around the internet, would be ideal.  Of course these are impossible to find.  I instead resort to the canvass plimsole for summer.  In blue or cream these are surprisingly versatile, looking less athletics and more aperitifs than one might think.  They also launder well on a regular cycle.  The trick is to find very plain versions, with little more to them than reinforced seams and vulcanized rubber parts.  

    My other knockabout shoe is my favorite: The Wallabee.  I’ve had mine since college, making them some of the oldest shoes in my closet.  If wear to the thick crepe sole is any indication, they have forty years to go.  I do not know what voodoo holds them together; they just stubbornly endure.  But the Wallabee's most important feature is that they are indisputably ugly.  They suggest only gardening, or cleaning the attic, and if worn in public couldn’t possibly be confused for an attempt at good looks.  They send a single, consistent message: I am engaged in some task that would endanger my better shoes.  And this is precisely why the knockabout shoe is vital—they are the vanguard, preventing premature wear or damage to the rest of the collection.  And they do so without the prospect of being taken to the Opera.  Now that is loyalty.

A rare gathering of seasonal knockabouts.  From left: suede loafers, duck boots, plimsoles, crepe-soled brogues.  

Pants with Lineage (Part II)

Buckskins: Totally caj.  Credit: Augusta Auction Co.

    Part I finished with a promise to place jean-wearing within the context of a more classical wardrobe, but I hope the expectation wasn’t for a list of rules and regulations.  Rather, what follows is a proposal; based upon that premise, some gentle guidelines unfold. 

    Strict classical dressers, who deride jeans as vulgar and, unless mucking out a barn, inappropriate, might be at this very moment raising eyebrows at any suggestion that this everyman’s garment has a place next to their flannels and cords.  But let’s first consider the following analogy: Jeans are to the contemporary man what buckskin breeches or pantaloons were to the gentleman of the Regency era: casual, utilitarian, versatile, and crucially, widely acceptable.  I further propose Beau Brummel, that inventor and arbiter of masculine style, would, if larking about today, have embraced jeans.

    If the Regency ideal was a gentleman of some action and swagger—a man who swung into his saddle with grace, all the while looking down his nose at the overwrought foppery of his predecessors, he needed a pant that reflected his athleticism and candor.  Buckskins—buff-colored, sueded deerskin trousers—fit this image well.  Some action too is expected of today’s man; travel, sport, tending to the house, garden or kids—these things and more require a trouser of some flexibility.  And if one considers the expectation of a certain stylish ruggedness, jeans, like yesterday’s buckskins, emerge as a sensible choice.

    Jeans travel exceptionally well, both in the case and in the cabin.  In fact with all the crouching, kneeling and hoisting required of the traveler today, I shudder to think what state my favorite gaberdines would be in after even a brief flight. It’s not that denim is necessarily sturdier than wool cloth (indeed the opposite is likely true).  The fact, however, is that jeans, unlike other trousers, do not require pressing; they are not upset by wrinkles or folds or stressed seams or worn knees.  Jeans absorb these familiar enemies of tailored clothing, obscuring even the worst assaults in the very character of the cloth.   

    This is because denim is a twill—a sturdy, tightly woven diagonally ribbed textile—made of cotton yarn.  Anyone who has worn a new pair of raw denim jeans can attest to just how stiff the cloth can be.  Denim is indeed tough, but only so far as cotton is concerned.  Cotton breaks down quite readily and so while an inky and dense new pair of jeans might be capable of standing unassisted, it won’t be long before they have softened considerably.  Like good calfskin shoes, quality denim will patinate as it ages.  I recommend rotating three pairs, from the newest, darkest pair, to the oldest, faded pair.  This method assures one Goldilocks pair at all times: not too dark or stiff, but not too faded or ragged either.  

    Unlike twills in wool, though, denim does not drape well at all.  Instead it resists gravity in a sort of cardboard way—something to do with the stiffness to weight ratio.    This quality accounts for the travel versatility mentioned above, but it also limits the cut and styling.   In short, jeans should be relatively snug, and if they are snug, they are also lower rise.  This sportive cut mirrors their utility though; draped wool trousers look elegant, but they aren’t ideal for crouching in the garden.  Attempts at denim trousers have always seemed disingenuous to my eyes, as if the cut itself betrays the cloth (or visa versa).  And just as low-rise thigh-hugging tailored pants of wool have no place in the classical wardrobe, neither do full-cut jeans.  I’m not recommending drain-pipe tightness—just those that conform to the hips and taper with the leg.  Sadly, there is no formula for getting the snugness factor correct, and I would be fibbing if I suggested anything but trial and error results in success.  The fact is you want jeans that start life quite stiff and snug; they will soften and loosen over time, reaching the parabolic apex of perfection before descending into the donation bin. 

    Lastly, jeans are undeniably versatile.  What other pant feels purpose-built for those varied and informal days that might include farmer’s markets, brisk dog-walks, lunch with wives or girlfriends and the odd house chore?  With the smart addition or subtraction of things like suede loafers or crepe-soled chukka boots, button-down-collar shirts, merino sweaters, navy blazers and tweed odd coats jeans remain appropriate.  

    In this sense, jeans don’t just supplant Regency-era buckskins but emulate their style:  utilitarian, close-fitting, versatile and in possession of some swagger.  But jeans, like buckskins, aren’t without their limitations.  Brummel and his lot didn’t wear theirs for more formal occasions, and certainly not those that took place in the evening.  So too might the contemporary man limit his deployment of denim to those times where leisure and activity are, if not imminent, probable.  This takes discipline; if wearing jeans seems even remotely incorrect reach instead for the flannels or cords or gabs.  And this really is the crucial point to be made about jeans: those very characteristics that make them desirable are also what dictate good practice in wearing them.

Jeans, having just departed the Goldilocks phase,  with navy coat and pink oxford.  Tea at the Ritz?  No.  Bordeaux-browsing with the wife?  Sure.

Pants With Baggage (Part I)

Jeans: black and white? 

    Jeans are difficult.  Difficult to get right; culturally fraught; increasingly expensive; terribly high-maintenance and, perhaps worst of all, ubiquitous.  For starters, what people wear are jeans and yet shops that sell the good stuff refer to their collections as denim.  Denim, of course, is synecdoche but we don’t go around requesting to see the whangee when what we're after is an umbrella.  In fact, the lore surrounding the naming of the cloth and resulting pants makes the history of “tweed” seem straightforward.  Whatever; there was durable cloth and workwear made from that cloth at a time and a place and most of it was blue with indigo.  Whether Genoa or Nimes is more responsible for our modern relationship with the garment is less important than this: jeans/denim are/is here for the duration.  

    Now for most this isn’t problematic.  In fact jeans represent a great equalizing opportunity; on the surface, at least, jeans really are egalitarian workwear.  Whether that work is hammering nails or hammering six-figure contracts is unimportant—what matters is one can do both in jeans, and do so unencumbered by the metaphysical implications of, say, a canvass jumpsuit or pinstriped DB.  We have invited jeans into our collective wardrobes, and in doing so, they have transcended their station.

    However, jeans do seem to raise the hackles of a few.  The rare etiquette expert, (and their common manifestations the event planner and the concierge) consider jeans more as a concept than a garment.  For these self-anointed arbiters the presence or absence of jeans represents a clear division between “normal” and “dress,” where anything north of jean-wearing is considered the latter.  This sort of binary thinking leads to very strange happenings.  I once attended a wedding where the single attire request was “No Jeans.” I was tempted to arrive in a vintage sarong and a pair of huaraches to test if that mercurial instruction was what the wedding planner truly meant.  I wore my trusty navy hopsack instead, and, with the exception of the minister, was marooned in a sea of khakis, polo shirts and orphaned suit jackets.  This is because, as I’ve previously stated, informality is often a perilous place.  

    As for restaurants, bars and, increasingly, country clubs, the once prevalent “Coat and Tie Required” has largely been supplanted by the far less helpful “No Jeans.”  Here the  code depends not upon the presence of certain articles of decorum but upon the banning of one, seemingly random garment.  A sign outside a hotel bar might just as well read; “No Agatine Eyelets, Please”.  Baffling; then again, revealing of a deeper layer in this complex story.  We live with a latent fear of appearing elitist.  Rather than risk telling people what they should wear we instead discern a scapegoat—jeans—and hope all participants understand the real or imagined implications of such a garment.  In my estimation, this sort of mystical propriety is far more elitist than asking someone to tie some silk around the neck.

    Of course this makes it sound as if I am advocating the general use of jeans for any social or business occasion—an especially curious position as I have in the past made clear my preference for real trousers.  But that’s not it at all.  I am merely confounded by the infamy of pants made from denim, versus, say, pants made from chino—another cheap cotton twill.  One type of pant is laden with baggage whilst the other glides anonymously beneath the noses of the persnickety.  I’ll offer a shaky theory as to why this may be.  The former is the clothing of laborers, while the latter a descendant of a military uniform.  Are the romantic colonial connotations of khaki what gains its acceptance?  And are grizzled, denim-swathed gold-rushers the reason jeans are shunned at the golf course? 

    There aren’t neat answers to cultural phenomena, and so I will finish part one of this exploration the way we started: jeans are difficult.  Somewhat more satisfyingly, Part II broaches the reality of wearing jeans rather than the philosophical act of doing so.  I am convinced jeans should be rectified, even within the context of a classical wardrobe.

No. Layered.  

A Brief Defense of Black Loafers

The black loafer in its natural habitat.

    When I was a little boy of perhaps eight or ten, I delighted in wearing a pair of shorts executed in a wintery camouflage pattern.  To my young mind, the whites and grays were superior to the muddy browns and greens of ordinary woodland camouflage.   Whether this was because snow camo was considered comparatively rare or just more flattering to sunburned legs--I don’t recall.  However, I do quite vividly remember pointing out to my friends the inherent humor of my shorts: when would one be required to hide in the snow and remain well-ventilated?  

    I think of those shorts now and again when confronted with certain grown-up articles of clothing that have attracted the ire of those gentlemen (of the internet, for the most part) who give serious thought to traditional men’s clothing.  The wearable paradox is frowned upon in these circles.  Propriety is, if not king, then the lofty goal.  And if one item of men’s dress is condemned more vehemently than others, it is surely the black loafer.  

    The paradox is the fact that loafers are inherently casual but black is always reserved for formal occasions.  The black loafer, however, suffers from an additional layer of condemnation; brown leather is, by this same crowd, universally preferred for its ability to patinate and appear mottled and lustrous.  The same is only slightly true of black, which might develop some subtle marbleization over two decades of regular wear, but is really at its most correct when it is glossy and, well, black.  

    And so the black loafer languishes, too somber for most, too casual for the rest.  In my opinion, this is a pity.  If we really need to identify incongruities within the realm of menswear, then low-hanging fruit abounds: three piece city suits of country cloth; suede oxfords; the rough finished homburg; patterned dress hose; woolen neckties.  Even the humble silk knot, a personal favorite for linking the cuffs, is in danger.  Each of these (and many more) violate the same “rule” that black casuals do; they conflate genus and species.

    The same list might just as well appear with the heading: “Favorite Items of the Famously Well-Dressed.”  We won’t run back through ascribing each to someone notable, suffice it to say everyone from Cary Grant to that natty little resignee, the Duke of Windsor, employed one or several paradoxical articles.  And if pressed, we might even point to an insistence upon suede or button-down collars as not just an element, but the beating heart of an individual’s style.  What these items do so well is blur the lines of propriety; they confidently straddle adjacent echelons of formality, dipping their host into both.  When one expects polished gold links, and encounters instead fraying silk knots, the effect if pleasantly jarring, particularly when the remainder is correct to the last stitch.  

    My black loafers are technically of the penny variety, but the details are subtle and the shape elegant rather than clunky.  I wear them on warm summer evenings while entertaining at home and out to causal dinners.  I don’t care for them with suits, but they do well beneath tan and grey odd trousers when laced oxfords would be stifling.  Sock-less, they seem particularly insouciant.  And while I don’t go about pointing out the incongruity as I once did with my snow-camo shorts, I do take private pleasure in noting the paradox.

Pursued by menswear zealots, these silk knots find safety in numbers.

An Odd Business

More patterns than sense.  

    I was sad to discover that I can no longer find an old photograph of my senior year English teacher--Dr. Bird, no less--who sits beaming from a rickety chair in our school’s cafeteria.  He wore a mustache and longish, albeit receding, hair better suited to a man half his age.  But his clothes always outshone his tonsorial habits.  Despite the years that have passed, I can recall the elements from that missing photo: a blue and white bengal striped shirt; a navy foulard bow tie, tied without precision; a burgundy sweater with a deep V; a pecan and cream checked odd jacket with rust overcheck; medium gray flannels; shoes of snuff suede with crepe soles.  This was dressing in odd elements at its finest, possessed of an elusive tension between propriety and indifference.

     I find myself dressed in casual separates more often than not too.  My odd jackets and odd trousers are made of the usual suspects: flannels and tweeds in cooler months; linen and cotton for our precious window of warmth.  I like to wear a jacket to casual dinners out, but wouldn’t hesitate to appear in flannel trousers and a lightweight sweater over an open-necked shirt to a family gathering, even on the holidays.  I suppose ease and practicality are the guiding principles, but it happens not without difficulty.

    There is a latent complexity when dressing in odd elements, the most obvious example of which might be pattern (or its absence).  Striped tailored garments do not work as separates because they shout business--a condition which defeats the premise of casual dress.  Checks do, although often awkwardly in combination, and solid worsteds are right out as their smooth and even surface belies their formality.  Eh... except for worsted trousers, but only those executed in mottled gray, and possibly olive; blue worsted trousers look orphaned from a suit (but can look dashing in cotton or linen).  And this is well before we broach the crucial matter of Fairisle.  

    Confounding--and enough to drive one to dress exclusively in the practical navy suit (and is likely why smart public figures, like politicians, usually do).  I admire the navy suit, but what a drab place it would be if there were no flannel, or, worse, tweed.  It becomes obvious that just as we require sombre hues and solids when we wish to convey seriousness, so too are patterns, color and texture necessary when leisure is the goal.  So how do we navigate more casual clothes?

    Questions like this leave the door open for rules and it is at this crossroads that we arrive at the counterintuitiveness of casual dress: it is far, far more challenging to do successfully than more formal correctness.  The options are many more than those proscribed by greater formality, but the line between dégagé and indignity remains terribly thin.  Put simply, the choices are infinite, the guidelines few, and error lurks freely.

    To my mind, masters of casual dress (like the inimitable Dr. Bird) operate by basic principles that, when applied in concert, create that covetable impression that survives long after photographs are lost.  My suspicion is these broad strokes concern texture, scale and color, but I would be flattered to hear what my knowledgeable readers have to say.  If there is interest, I’ll compile the results into a snappy post.

Flannel, tweed and a paisley pattern so large it would do equally well as drapes.

A Bone of Intention

   Despite the possibly limitless choice in checks, there are two types of men who might hope for something else.  The first is the man with two dozen checked odd jackets in varying scales from the demure to the frightening.  The world is his oyster, but he longs for still greater variety.  One can hardly commiserate.  The second and perhaps more interesting fellow has a tighter purse.  He has a modest collection of checked odd jackets--say three--in differing scales and colors.  He wears them often, and is confident only the pedant would take note of his rotation.  He is considering a fourth odd jacket, and while both louder and more subtle checks exist that would not go unworn, he resists in favor of versatility.  His choice?  The dark brown herringbone.

    The navy blazer of course is the classic useful jacket, and our fictitious gentleman may or may not already possess one, (although I’m not in the business of supplying the order in which someone ought to acquire what).  I have found though that the blazer, for all its famous utility, perches awkwardly between genres.  It’s often too formal for casual social activities, but usually when I wear mine to something where it would seem a sensible choice, I come away wishing I had worn a suit.  I suspect this has something to do with its collegiate and club associations, a sort of sub-genre where funny things happen to the rules of the masculine universe.

    By contrast, an odd jacket made of a dark brown herringbone seems capable of consistently striking the correct note.  It dresses up wonderfully with flannels and a woven tie, say in a deep burgundy, works more casually with corduroys and a knobbly navy knit tie, and, if you are into this sort of thing, will always seem at peace with little more than denim and a pale shirt.  The magic, I think, is that herringbone is one of those unique self-patterns that appears in both suiting and more casual cloth, seeming at once sporting and restrained.  

Brown with plenty of black, tan , grey, and possibly navy, olive, lavender…  

    Of course the key to this jacket must be the cloth.  If we assume a four-season climate, eliminating summer as an outlier, I find 12-14 ounce comfortable.  Texture is important too; it ought to have some, otherwise risk looking too suit-like.  Last, and perhaps most importantly, I think it should be quite dark.  Mine, pictured on a dummy below, is made from 14 ounce cheviot tweed.  It has a mottled, almost donegal effect, achieved by alternating flecked brown chevrons with black ones.  I’ll sidestep the classic debate as to whether black and brown can coexist by pointing to the resulting loveliness of the cloth.  The overall cast may be brown, but the black introduces a moody richness--the very quality that permits the jacket to be worn from day into the evening.  That’s important if practicality is the aim.  

    Finally, a word on just that.  Many would suggest the very premise of practicality is unsexy.  The line of thought might be that expensive clothing should be far removed from the ordinary, made from extravagant materials and in daring designs.  Practicality--that is, the idea that something is useful beyond its beauty--introduces a pedestrian quality at odds with glamour.   By contrast, I am suggesting practicality as the height of glamour.  Is the man who must check his bags for a three-day trip glamorous?  Indecisive, perhaps.  To return to our fictitious hero for a moment: a mid gray suit, three shirts, two ties, a pair of brown casual shoes, dark denim jeans and his new practical herringbone, makes three distinct outfits and fits easily into a carry-on.  There is swagger in packing light, and authority in confidently deploying items from that well-edited collection.

The brown herringbone jacket in question, photographed at the basted fitting stage.  The dummy nicely displays the jacket's shape.  The other dummy wishes he had a proper camera with him.  

Taking a Soft Line

The ready-wear market is shackled to notions of what will or won't sell--notions informed by trend, but never too far from the safety of so-called season-less plain weaves and insipid tonal patterns.  One might encounter fuzzy cashmeres and gossamer tropical worsteds on the racks but finding anything with real guts is a trial.  This is a pity as the nicest cloths embrace the season, and in doing so create delightful effects.  Form, if you will, very much born of function.  

Flannels and twists demonstrate this nicely.  And perhaps there are few better examples than Harrison's Worsted and Woolen Flannels and Minnis' Fresco (II).  The Flannels have plenty of nap--a quality intended to insulate the wearer--but it's the resulting fuzziness of the patterns that is most charming.  The Frescos have a lovely mottled surface appearance too; this time, though, the high-twist yarn and plain weave (which wears cool) are the culprits.  Different objectives--similar happy results.  

Take a spin through the gallery--but don't be surprised if you have the urge to purge your wardrobe of all the wimpy "season-less" stuff.