The Oddest Jacket

    When said aloud, the problem sounds trifling: I don’t have an odd jacket that performs well in the heat.  But who hasn’t wilted through some jacket-wearing event, sorely tempted to ditch the offending top layer at the first hint of relaxed formality?  I was at a garden party last summer where jacketless-ness spread like a fast-moving flu.  I resisted, and was ostracized by the damp-shirted other men who looked upon me as if, instead of tobacco linen on my back, I wore a scarlet A upon my breast.  Why the hostility?  Misery, or in this case steps taken to lessen it, likes company.

    At the core of the matter is an existential problem for the garment in question: why try and beat the heat with a jacket, when its absence is more effective?  And yet the garment endures, relevance be damned, in a suspended state of compromise.  Whatever other people’s motivation in wearing one, mine is split sixty/forty utility/propriety.  Utility gets the edge because I simply do not know what else to do with a phone, handkerchief and keys.  Introduce sunglasses, or, if leisure is the goal, a cigar and lighter, and one approaches tote territory.  The social expectation to wear a jacket, when not required to wear a suit, is less concrete.  Some men persist out of habit, others are obstinate traditionalists; some begrudgingly comply, still others embrace the vanishing requirements without giving the matter another look.  I suppose I fall somewhere between the first and second fellow, but propriety still accounts for only forty percent of my motivation.  I will say this though: even at the more extreme ends of the temperature spectrum, when a jacket seems correct, it always is.

    So what makes a good candidate?  A whispy navy blazer?  Crisp linen in cream?  A rumpled madras, as unserious as it is unstructured?  I’m inclined to say a single jacket won’t, in the long term, suffice.  But I wonder if, in a garment category predicated upon compromise, an amalgamation of the above examples is not possible.  The most promising cloth for the job that I have encountered draws the desirable characteristics of several fibers into a blend, creating something greater than its parts.  Wool gives body and resilience; linen, coolness and texture; silk, luster and durability.  All the big cloth makers and merchants offer cloth in varying mixtures, and I have often seen ready-to-wear jackets in similar compositions.

    But another possibility lurks—lightweight worsted merino, which, through the miracle of modern weaving technology, achieves resistance to wrinkles, breathability and durability despite its weight.  I can almost hear the collective arching of eyebrows as I suggest modern worsteds on these pages as I have always preferred more traditional and heavier cloths.  But so goes innovation (when done well), and I would hardly be alone amongst other lovers of heavy cloth in admiring the handle of these lightweight wonders.  In a variegated navy, perhaps with a modest shadow pattern and bone-colored buttons, a summer odd jacket might not seem so odd after all.

The Singularity

    Handmade tailored clothes—what might correctly be called bespoke had that term not been hijacked and diluted by scores of mediocre, machine-made startups—are not immune to trends.  Presumably, some creative soul, bored with harmonizing linings, one day conceived of lining his suits with exuberant silk, the trickle down effect of which is plainly evident in the increasingly garish innards of much of today’s ready-to-wear market.  The same could be said of contrasting buttonhole thread, or clever under-collar felt.  And what about the regional whims of Italian artisans?  Should we at all be surprised to see details like pick-stitching and spalla camicia (shirt shoulder), however clumsily executed, right down to the level of fast-fashion?  There is an irony buried deeply within all that scarlet lining and turquoise thread—a hilarious, cosmic joke between the whims of the bespoke client and the received desires of the ordinary consumer.

    Conversely, I have discovered, the greatest pleasure in conceiving of and having made a garment is in eliminating the gimmicks and reducing the special effects.  The hallmarks that I have grown to appreciate in the truly handmade are equal opportunity; one might have knowledge of tailoring or none whatsoever—either way the appeal is one of balance and shape in motion rather than flash.  These are clothes that are not just jacket- or trouser-shaped, but purposeful garments the shapes of which are dictated equally by beauty and necessity.  But the truest, lightest mark of the handmade garment is found in deriving the former from the latter.  

    This is especially the case with a bold pattern.  My loudest garment to date is a large glen plaid jacket in rusty brown, cream and slate-blue tweed.  The scale is almost double that of any other pattern I own.  While I am always fascinated by the transformation of flat cloth into three-dimensional form, I was especially impressed with how Chris Despos fashioned this jacket.  One might think of a bold pattern as something like elevation for the master chef; the ordinary cook might not give the matter much thought, but in the pursuit of excellence, every variable must be expertly considered and accounted for.   

    But Despos’ work is not mere pattern-matching.  Today’s best computerized machines can approximate some matching with simple stripes and checks, but would likely spark and catch fire if programmed to execute the miracle that has been achieved with this cloth.  The patch pockets are virtually invisible; the boldest part of the check is centered to the millimeter on the lapels; the shoulders join at an ideal pitch; darts through the front body of the jacket barely warp the check, like a singularity invisibly bends the fabric of space to the naked eye.  My jacket fits, but it does so without disrupting even for a moment the spirit of the pattern—the effect of which is a bold cloth made more wearable by the minimizing of the points at which the pattern fractures.

    Nevertheless, wearing a larger pattern presents some challenges.  Bold shirts are out, and, as of this writing, I can only envision a solid or textured tie.  This is perhaps why bolder jackets and suits have largely been ignored by the ready-to-wear market; they limit the ability of the retailer to sell complimentary accessories.  As of late, though, I have noticed louder offerings.  I wonder: like the bright linings and flash details of the past, are bold patterns slowly being drawn into the wider market?

The Over-Under

    Prior to commercialized aviation, capacious tweed overcoats and flowing raglan-sleeved things were considered sensible items to wear for travel.  They acted as wearable blankets, I suppose, protecting the person (and his clothes) within from the blasts of cold air at each stop and the jostling of the platform.  A few months ago I was reminded why these otherwise handsome garments are no longer just the thing for today’s traveler: a tall fellow swept into the crowded cabin of our commuter jet, the folds of his caped balmacaan nearly collecting several pre-flight cocktails and a small child before he finally found his seat.  Once there, he and the crew puzzled over where to store the monstrosity.  It was unceremoniously folded and jammed beneath a seat.  He was silly for wearing it, but generally speaking, I can commiserate; travel today limits considerably good choices, and outerwear takes the greatest casualties.  

    Lightweight technical gear is one solution, but finding an example that covers the rear, let alone  extends several inches below a jacket line, is difficult.  The other problem with technical jackets is they derive warmth from some sort of filler—wadding, down or, I was amazed to recently discover, polystyrene beads.  While not as cumbersome as heavy wool, volume of any description is just unwelcome in a cramped cabin.  My solution is an exercise in true compromise: I travel most often with the original technical gear—the waxed cotton jacket.  A Barbour Beaufort, to be precise.  This model is raglan sleeved, unlined, water resistant and what it lacks in real warmth, it makes up for in its ability to easily layer over anything from heavy fisherman’s sweaters to tweed odd jackets.  Its most valuable property, however, is that it is unprecious, looking as good rumpled and battered as it does freshly reconditioned.  I wouldn’t flinch if a sullen flight attendant should screw it up into a ball and use it to mop up a spilled Bloody Mary, let alone cram it into an overhead bin.  

    The other, considerably more imaginative configuration poses a fundamental question: what is outerwear?  A tweed jacket was, and often still is, outerwear.  And what about sweaters, garments developed to be worn for outdoor pursuits?  Many might ordinarily pack both, but the smartest packers do so with an eye toward creating a traveling wardrobe that serves in lieu of proper outerwear.  A fourteen ounce tweed jacket worn over a shirt and knit serves well in temperatures down to freezing with scarf, gloves and hat added to the rig.  And as long as we are playing fast and loose with categories, another more progressive option lurks: the lightweight technical vest.  If it is slim enough and not too puffy it, too, can be worn beneath a tweed jacket.  I’ve done this; it is as warm as any proper outerwear.  

    I perhaps overstated the difficulty of traveling with an overcoat.  I have done it with a covert cloth coat.  It does require a certain amount of strategic folding and stashing, but it can be done.  Perhaps what is really needed is the right degree of carelessness; my covert coat is old and softly unstructured and I wouldn’t lose my cool if a gate agent ordered me to check it amongst the strollers and golf bags.  The real issue is convenience, though.  Travel is rarely what it once was, and the more the traveller can do to reduce friction, the better.  If this means going without a beloved overcoat for the duration, so be it.

For Keeps

    I am not sure I could put a hard percentage to it, but there is little doubt: much of my interest in men’s clothing originates in the names.  Some are obvious portmanteaus; thornproof achieves what it claims because, as tweeds go, it is exceptionally densely woven.  There’s the vaguely French: covert cloth, where the “t” is silent, began life as riding and hunting cloth, but, with its marled two-tone effect, proved too handsome not to be fashioned into polished topcoats.  What about cavalry twill, which suggest mounted charges and smoke-filled officer’s quarters, or whipcord, which sounds as durable as it proves to be.  In among these I have long admired a cloth with a more complex suggestion: keeper’s tweed.  

    This is the original working tweed—the heavy and muted cloth reserved for a country estate’s gamekeeper and his staff.  There is no regulated weight range, although I would argue anything under seventeen ounces a yard, while durable and heavier than much of the ready-to-wear market, is just tweed.  Twenty ounces is a good starting point; twenty-four, better.  But weight alone does not make a keeper’s tweed.  The patterns tend to be far less elaborate as well, and the colors, while remarkably rich up close, resolve almost universally to either lovat, dark green or olive.  The lack of exuberance of a classic keeper’s tweed is a matter of camouflage.  But is blending into the fields and fens just as important as standing out from the shooting party itself?  Put another way, lilac overchecks and royal blue plaids might look dashing on the backs of those wielding the guns, but the serious business of managing land has only ever called for subtly and performance.  

    Of course few today seriously require either.  But the spirit of this historical cloth remains in books like W. Bill’s Keeper’s Collection.  I do not have a driven hunt in my future (as either a beater or a shooter).  I do, however, have dogs to walk and outdoor sports events to attend.  I also have a beloved pea coat that, after fifteen years of hard wear, has packed it in.  I suspect that with a few tweaks in design—perhaps a throat latch, slightly longer skirt and an action back—a sports jacket made of keeper’s tweed would be a sensible replacement.  This is a critical point; many fear heavy tweed for its heft and warmth.  But we do not similarly condemn our ordinary outerwear, and what is keeper’s tweed other than cloth for wearing outdoors?

All the Moving Parts

What's this flap all about?  

    I can trace my appreciation of menswear to a specific encounter I had around age five.  Though a fragment, the memory is clear: an older man—perhaps an uncle—witnessing my protests and discomfort at being wrestled into jacket and tie for some function, pulled me aside and explained that men wore jackets because of the secret pockets.  These pockets, he explained while pointing out my blazer’s own interior, were for carrying the gadgets required of men: pens, pocket knives, handkerchieves and matches.  He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, now you know.  Thirty years later, the lesson is still with me: clothes aren’t costumes—they are functional garments designed to adapt to a given environment without sacrificing utility or style.

    I no longer carry all the mischievous appurtenances of adolescence.   That learned pleasure in utility has survived, however, in the appreciation of a garment’s useful and functioning details.  The most common example, but one that nevertheless still makes me smile, is the standard flapped pocket.  Most ready-to-wear suits and jackets have flap pockets, likely because they strike the most agreeable balance between the casual patch pocket and the formal flap-less slit pocket found on tuxedoes.  Patch pockets are great sporting details, but why choose between flaps and flap-less for suits?  I always have ordinary flapped pockets; should the urge to give the suit a slightly more formal appearance strike, I neatly tuck the flap.  This seems obvious, silly even, but the effect is not just instantaneous but rather less subtle than it sounds.  With correspondingly formal accessories, tucking flaps really does convert a standard business suit into something special.

    A more rugged detail has long haunted me, falling in and out of favor on roughly imagined future jackets: the throat latch.  I know of two versions.  The first is a detachable, gently curved piece of cloth that buttons out of sight behind the collar and lapel.  When needed, the collar and lapel flip up and the cloth strap is brought across the throat where it buttons to an otherwise hidden button on the underside of the opposite collar.  The other type is more honest: the strap is a permanent and plainly seen extension of the collar that indicates the wearer’s ability to transform his jacket into bonafide outerwear should an unexpected and chilly wind come up.  I prefer the latter; not only is it less fiddly, it gives a jacket so equipped an obvious sporting élan that makes wearing it casually feel so natural.  

Swing low.  

    The subtlest expression of functional adjustment results from a double breasted made with a soft enough lapel.  The most familiar double breasted jacket front has six buttons that show, but only two of them—namely the right-hand lower two—that button.  A man in a double breasted has options.  He can button both middle and lower right-hand buttons or he can leave the bottom undone.  If feeling particularly louche, however, he can button just the bottom-most.  The lapels will roll open to this lowest point, not just exposing more shirt, but creating a long and dramatic sweep, from left shoulder to right hip.  It is a vintage look, and probably better reserved for after-hours.  And while it might seem too deep in the domain of the dedicated clothing enthusiast to be related to that long-ago memory of function, the premise remains: clothing should adapt to the wearer and not the other way around.

    But why does function appeal?  In a basic sense, it multiplies the usefulness of any given garment—more looks for the price of one.  Patterned and textured three piece suits operate on this principle, affording three separates or one very coordinated application.  But I think there is a deeper appeal: when a garment can be operated beyond ordinary wear, it gains a sort of permanence in contradistinction to fashion, which often just impersonates utility.  How many designers have sewn on useless straps, pockets and zippers in the name of lending their clothes authenticity?  The technique never works; a false pocket is false from a thousand yards.  But when all the details found on a garment not just function but provide real utility, the effect is universally handsome.  Surely if form must follow function, so too must fashion.

Oh Snap!

Scarf, à la modal.

    Are there places on our planet that enjoy luxurious, gentle transitions between the seasons?  Does any wardrobe rotate in steady lockstep with the ripening leaves, frosts, thaws and heat?  I ask for more than rhetorical effect; I would be envious of a place where linen, gaberdine, flannel and tweed can be predictably selected without fear of getting it terribly wrong.  Anywhere I have lived, it is summer one day, and the next it has already been fall for a week.  That it then reverses back just as I’ve slipped into warmer clothing—the dreaded Indian summer—is cruel.  And so we formulate ways to weather unseasonable seasons.  I find the following three items indispensable.  

    The fourteen ounce tweed jacket is ideal.  True, this conclusion is based on experience rather than science, and I realize tolerances vary greatly.  But I also challenge those skeptics to find this versatile weight far too hot or cold on those unpredictable inter-seasonal days.  I have worn one of mine between forty and seventy degrees fahrenheit without any major problems.  The trick, if it can be called that, is to mentally recategorize the jacket as a sweater or cardigan, which one wouldn’t think twice about slinging over an arm or wearing with a scarf as needed.

    Conversely, cotton socks present somewhat of a versatility challenge.  They don’t really insulate well while managing to wear too warmly in the real heat.  Quality versions are no less expensive than woolen socks and I have even struggled to launder them with consistent results.  But they are the only sock for unpredictable weather; not because they adjust, but because they will not cause too much discomfort if the temperature veers in either direction.  I realize this wisdom is less an endorsement for the cotton sock than a recommendation based upon its shortcomings.  But isn’t all versatility grounded in some form of compromise?

Cotton socks, languishing in mediocrity.

    Finally, the seemingly least practical tip.  For years I assumed the lightweight scarf was one of those silly accessories favored by stylists for their warm-weather clients who yearn for cold-weather style (these people live in Los Angeles, by the way).  But then I was given one made of modal (reconstituted cellulose spun to incredible fineness).  It is softer than cashmere, and, like a scrap of urban rubbish, could easily float around the city on a stiff enough updraft.  Despite these qualities it also insulates exceedingly well when worn beneath a jacket or casually over a lightweight knit.  I am a convert—with the sincerest apologies to stylists everywhere.

    There is one slight problem though.  A gauzy (polka-dotted) scarf will not go unnoticed, and tweed, while widely worn, has strong enough fall and winter connotations to elicit snarky comments if worn too early in the season.  These items are only as good as one’s likelihood of wearing them, and for one reason or another, most of my preferred inter-seasonal stuff is fairly conspicuous.   I wonder if this is why many men resort to technical gear—the sort of athletic stuff that is said to breathe and wick.  But I ask: what’s more alarming, a man warding off an unseasonal cold snap in tweed or the site of a mountaineer hailing a cab?

Gray Area

Three lengths of cloth: two versatile and one downright irresponsible.  

    As far as I know, no one has seriously tried to document the various sub-species of clothing enthusiast.  And yet familiar categories exist—the sneaker obsessive, for instance, or the hard-boiled bespoke client.  Some groups are organized by things—those that collect and wear vintage clothing—whereas others more loosely gather  around a concept, like minimalism or, a crowd favorite, that which is deemed classic.  Lurking somewhere between all the limited-run tweed and fabled design is a small faction whose raison d’être is versatility.  I number myself in this curious group.  

    Oh to be a sneaker-head!  How satisfying it must be to chase the tangible!  Instead I snatch at an idea whose manifestations might seem harmless—a do-all blazer, the perfect flannel trouser—but require endless revision and numerous reissues.  How utterly self defeating; the repeated indulgence of versatility is admission that the premise is no more than a fable.  But ideas with compelling narratives can be dangerous things.   This is how the J. Peterman Catalogues found a following.  Who wouldn’t be drawn by the promise of a perfect travel jacket?

    My latest attempt at versatility was born in response to the success of an excellent brown herringbone tweed jacket.  Success is the slipperiest slope; if a thing is good, another, slightly different version must be better, no?  The brown tweed seems, indeed, versatile, and its limitations are purely theoretical.  Are the patch pockets too casual?  Or, is brown not a tad too brown for a night on the town?  And so a vision, foggy at first, appears.  Soon it focuses, and then hardens: a gray tweed odd jacket would be awfully versatile…

    For those less versed in the machinations that lead to this sort of an idea, permit me a brief explication of time, place, color, material and configuration.  An odd jacket (commonly sport coat) is a traditionally casual garment in that it is not a suit.  Of course any jacket these days is considered an attempt at dress.  Tweed is a casual, sports cloth that literally repels the elements but also figuratively repels associations with the worsted cloths of business or city clothing.  Gray, however, is what might be termed a business or city color.  Gray tweed, then, is somewhat of a chimera; a casual cloth in a downtown sort of palette.  The way in which a coat is styled also sends messages.  Patch pockets are rather casual, so on this coat, in an attempt to fine-tune that great unknown quantity, versatility, I’ve asked for standard flap pockets.  

    Versatility is less frightening an organizing principle when its faithful concede that everything, no matter how well conceived, has limitations.  Even the unicorns—the garments that perennially seem perfect—have one fatal flaw: a need to rest.  Rotation is the great slayer of versatility.  Perhaps this is why those of us who chase the notion can sleep at night; applied to a whole, say a wardrobe, versatility is a noble goal.

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.