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?

Color Code: Cracked

If the decision is between Beeswax and Tudor Cream, something has already gone dramatically wrong.

    Nothing turns me off discussions of clothes quite like color theory.  I do an about face the instant someone begins discussing shades in terms of families.  I’m far more interested in the imaginative names assigned colors than the colors themselves (which accounts for our second floor damask rose room).  The very worst, though, are those color enthusiasts who describe people in terms of season; telling someone he is a winter or a spring is an obvious invitation to tap the speaker for his bristling knowledge of the subject.  I’d rather be washed out in the wrong taupe than endure that sort of a lecture.  

    What chafes me is the quackery that seems to uphold most of these theories.  The main problem is the subject—my complexion—is a moving target.  I once had freckles, but now don’t.  Last year, following two weeks in or around salt water, what’s left of my hair became sort of reddish; it’s now flecked with silver and gray.  When it is very cold and dry, I suspend my shaving routine, and my beard grows in an alarmingly dark brown.  In the tropics I take sun easily, but lose it on the flight home.  In any event, I don’t wear my trousers tied around my head, so what does it matter if they aren’t the ideal shade of goldenrod for my eyebrows?  Also, even if teal is really my color according to one of these experts, I’m never going to have a shirt made in it.  

    And this is really the heart of the matter: regardless of what colors might or might not suit the individual, most shirts will remain white or blue and most suits grey, navy or perhaps brown.  Accessories might stray into more adventurous territory, but I often think the success or failure of a daring tie or sweater depends more upon the harmony of the composition than it does the shade of something as comparatively small as the iris.  

    That’s not to suggest color is not important.  It is, but the time thinking about color is better spent determining which ones don’t flatter as opposed to sifting through the much larger group of ones that either work reasonably well, or, because of tradition or professional expectation, are going to be worn anyway.  When confronted with vast choice, navigation is far more efficient when armed with trial-and-error proven guidelines than some shaky system that recommends flattering colors dependent upon a shifting complexion.  In short, it is easier to know what to avoid than to wonder if something is correct.  

    In an effort to sound authoritative but as unscientific as possible, I have listed as bullet points below my personal guidelines.

-Do not trust anyone who thinks brown and black don’t go well together.

-Dark green is incredibly handsome and remarkably underused.   

-Off-white is often better than stark white.*  Plus the names are better: cream, ivory, bone…

-Primary colors are forbidden, as are two shades in either direction of them.  

-Be careful with purple, orange and lighter greens.

-Gold rather than silver.

-When in doubt: Navy.

*The exception being more formal evening occasions when only a white shirt will do.

Obscura

    How refreshing it is to learn you know almost nothing!  I most recently had this sensation at a small restaurant where the wine list was devoid of my preferred Burgundies and bubblies.  What blinked back at me was, if not entirely foreign, unfamiliar enough that my finger reflexively ran itself beneath the names as I sounded them out.  Mos-chi-fil-ero, my lips forming the syllables while the patient waiter hovered with his pencil.  Ne-rell-o Mas-ca-les-e. Sure—a bottle of that one, please.  It was terrific: a Sicilian varietal high in acid, low in tannin, but with a layered wildness that might, in more familiar wines, have been considered a flaw.  This is precisely the problem with becoming too familiar with anything; at some stage the enjoyment is supplanted by a persistent desire to find fault.  The unfamiliar, however, can act as a tonic, rejiggering expectations.

    The bonus to lesser-known wines are the terrific names.  We have all likely heard of Gewürztraminer, which makes highly aromatic white wines in Alsace and Germany, but what about Grüner Veltliner, (Austrian) Chasselas (Swiss), Grk (Croatian), Xinomavro (Greek), or, my personal favorite, Zweigelt.  This Austrian grape is the product of hybridizing two other fairly obscure varietals (St. Laurant and Blaufränkisch) in 1922.  Zweigelt makes wines of extraordinary finesse, at once balanced and firm while still managing a wily character.  Smoked brisket on Royal Derby china, if you will.  Incidentally, the name, pronounced TSVY-gelt, is taken from the brainy fellow who created it, which wasn’t his choice.  Dr. Zweigelt wanted to name his new grape rotburger.  

    Strangely, a similarly jarring sensation emerges when confronted with an obscure clothing material.  Cloth enthusiasts know this well.  I have often been lulled into thinking I understand cloth, at least from a consumer’s perspective, simply because I recognize the great divide between smooth worsteds and fuzzy woolens and have a working knowledge of twill versus plain weave.  And then I behold some rare specimen—perhaps a sixteen ounce high-twist hopsack or ethereal jacketing that, impossibly, still has nap—which unhinges entirely whatever junior-league expertise I thought I had.  Tweed can be especially enlightening: I like fourteen ounce cheviot for general wear, but interest in heavier tweeds has recently exposed me to keeper’s tweed almost twice that weight.  And what about the luxury sector; cashmere is old-hat compared to vicuña, yak and cervelt (cloth woven from the downy undercoats of New Zealand Red Deer).

    Neither is the seemingly pedestrian button immune from delivering a humbling blow.  With the exception of a set of antiqued silver ones sewn on a blazer, my buttons are horn.  I always assumed these handsome articles were the last word in fastening elegance.  But all it takes is a curious perusal through a tailor’s back room, as I recently did with Chris Despos.  There I spied buttons of corozo nut, coconut shell, and mother-of-pearl—both natural and smoked—any of which would be ideal for a summer-weight navy jacket.  The most shocking of all, however, were leather buttons.  Despos’ were far from the chunky leather-wrapped domes intended to complement rustic outerwear of heavy tweed though.  Instead, these are slim four-hole buttons that, upon closer inspection, are clad in neatly pressed layers of leather.  The effect is simultaneously refined and untamed.

    But are rare cloths and difficult-to-pronounce varietals important beyond their novelty?  Does the  jacket with understated leather buttons and a glass of Zweigelt share more than a certain insider appeal?  I suggested earlier that the unusual and rare can have the tonic effect of resetting the senses, but I wonder if a deeper agency is at work.  For every appealing new wine, for every interesting fiber or button, a dozen others fall short of expectations, and even those that do appeal can have limited shelf-life.  In this sense, indulging the obscure is sometimes refreshing, but far more often, merely confirmation of a preference.

Fine Tuning

Whipcord in brownish shades and beefy cavalry twill in an ideal gray.

    The warmest pair of trousers I’ve ever worn were corduroys—eighteen ounce wide-whale ones in an offensive yellow that was slyly advertised as goldenrod.  They had other problems: they bagged, were too warm indoors, disagreed with pleats and cuffs and were heavy around the waist.  Worst of all, they dressed neither up nor down, occupying a largely useless space between jeans and woolen flannels.  Despite a raised eyebrow, a second hand shop accepted them.  I sometimes wonder if they are making someone else unhappy.

    But does the trouser wardrobe really need anything other than a few pairs of flannels for cooler weather?  The other way of asking this is: what’s wrong with flannels?  The marled, unfocussed aesthetic of flannels is certainly very handsome, lending itself particularly well to shades of gray, a family that just happens to be the most useful for trousers.  Depending on the weight, flannels can be reasonably to unreasonably warm; between the extremes are thirteen ounce flannels that will insulate the legs from car to building without overheating the wearer once inside.  So if they look nice and perform well, what’s the issue?  

    For me it’s maintenance and durability.  I find myself pressing my flannel trousers more often than others, and I’m not the first to notice thinning and fuzzing at the knees of favorite pairs.  This isn’t an issue for flannel suits as occasions that call for a suit usually don’t involve much crouching or kneeling.  But odd trousers are for those more active occasions, so sometime last winter I made a note to seek out more durable, less fussy winter-weight cloth.  The results are in.

    I’m unsurprised that my search led me to a type of twill.  I’ve always been impressed with the performance of gaberdine trousers; they resist and shed wrinkles, drape well and show no wear after several years.  Gaberdine is a fine twill, though—unsuitable for the cold.  Enter whipcord and cavalry twill, densely woven, robust wool cloths with more pronounced diagonal ribbing, but all of the usual benefits of the twill family.  The whipcord I chose is fourteen ounces and the cavalry twill a stout eighteen ounces.  The idea was to provide some range in performance.  

    But range extends beyond trying to match trouser warmth to outside temperature.  Because of the pronounced diagonal rib, and mottled, tonal effect of the weaves, whipcord and cavalry twill  tread a careful line between cloth for dress and casual or active pursuits.  Perhaps this quality is what endeared this class of cloth to traditional military and sporting applications, where durability and propriety have historically carried equal importance.  Admittedly, some of these fine distinctions might seem arcane by today’s standards, especially given the availability of modern fabrics and lessoned expectations of formality.   I wonder though: what’s more current than carefully sifting through vast choice before landing on the right material for the application?

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?

Volume Control

Something frightening lurks.

    I adore loud patterns; I can’t afford them though.  Let me explain.  Regardless of fiber, quality cloth is never inexpensive, and regardless of the source (ready-to-wear through bespoke), quality clothing made from quality cloth is an expensive proposition.  To squeeze the most value from the resulting garment the owner would hope for durability, an acceptable range of performance, and, most importantly, an appearance not so distinctive as to become familiar to those who regularly witness its use.  Put another way, a loud garment is a poor investment if worn sparingly, and embarrassing if worn too regularly.

    The obviously sensible approach, then, is to build a wardrobe comprised of tastefully restrained quality garments.  This is a well understood principle in classic menswear writing.  I can also personally attest to the satisfaction felt in slowly accumulating clothes expertly made of high-quality ingredients.  Importantly, satisfaction in a restrained wardrobe is derived from two sources.  There is the austere beauty of neatly hung garments in harmonizing shades, a result that appears functional and efficient.  But there is also the sense of security that originates from being prepared; nothing rattles the owner of this wardrobe, from unexpected business functions to splashy social occasions.  This is a mature wardrobe, but one built upon propriety rather than desire, and perhaps even fear rather than confidence.

A conservative (but vibrant!) blue tropical worsted.  

    I’m starting to wonder if the rubric has changed.  I have a friend who works in a conservative field, but not one that requires the daily wearing of a suit.  In fact, he is explicitly encouraged to wear nothing more exciting than chinos or slacks and tie-less button-front shirts.  He is a repressed soul while on the clock; once released, however, he blossoms in lilac checks and grass-green socks, tan brogues and electric plaids.  His tastes are far more adventurous than my own, but his comfort with color and pattern is obvious.  Most notably, though, he enjoys his clothes immensely, and because they are worn exclusively for social occasions, he is unconcerned with colleagues who might snipe at seeing some bold jacket for the third time.

    What he is, it should be clear, is a weekend dandy.  But I suspect not one of his own making.  He is, instead, a product of his environment—an American phenomenon that has concentrated propriety down to a rigidly anonymous and yet still casual uniform.  Of course some professions still expect conservative suits and accessories, but they are few, and fewer still are individual holdouts from previous generations who wouldn’t dream of relaxing their habit.  But generally the level of professional formality is greatly reduced in the US, while expectations of dress for social occasions have all but disappeared.  I suspect these are precisely the conditions that have given rise to a new breed of clothing enthusiast.  This new man might be somewhat repressed for much of the week, but the weekend unveils a wardrobe conceived in contradistinction to propriety: his is a collection grounded in confidence, exuberance and self-gratification.

Check please.

    Have garment makers responded?  Paging through some of the season’s better look-books reveals a steady diet of bold color and loud pattern, elements of costume and precious styling.  Some men may wear these things to work, but I suspect most wouldn’t dare in the combinations suggested.  And most retailers would rather oblige than force fashion; these bolder expressions, then, are surely reflections of where tastes are headed, one oversized plaid at a time.  Further up the chain, mills do seem to produce more exuberant cloths today than in recent memory.   Mills are an ideal advance indicator; quality cloth is not just expensive to buy but to produce, so if they are willing to bet on bold, then surely change is in the air.  As I glance at my own modest collection of semi-solids, the real question becomes: am I?

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.

Blue Wrapsody

The party DB at the basted stage.

    The first few months of any new year is when wedding invitations (or at least save-the-dates) start appearing, and so far a number of hefty ones have been plonked down in our mailbox.  We are honored, of course, but there are those of a certain disposition whose minds almost immediately turn to dress and whether or not the old wardrobe can accommodate.  When one considers the variables involved—location, time of year, time of day, venue—the wedding can quickly become a challenging event for the clothes-conscious guest.

    But the real moment of pause occurs when scanning the remainder of the invitation one encounters an opaque phrase like Formal.  In the classic sense, formal means nothing short of white tie and tails.  Common sense (or unfortunate experience) suggests this isn’t what’s meant, so one may consider the tuxedo.  This is usually also incorrect; in the US the F word refers to a suit.  When Black tie is Suggested, Encouraged, Optional or indeed anything short of Required, most men wear suits.  In any case, phone calls are inevitably made between guests and eventually the bride herself, or her mother, will intervene.  This is too bad; there was a time when people just knew.

    I like a black tie wedding, but the truth is they are going the way of morning dress weddings in the US.  There is practicality to consider—most ceremonies take place in the early afternoon when tuxedoes aren’t correct—but the real reasons have more to do with an increasingly casual culture, and, to a lesser extent, fear of appearing elitist.

    For those with a greater sense of occasion, however, all is not lost.  One may choose to wear a suit styled with more formal details.  At the top of this category is probably a dark three piece with peaked lapels.  If the waistcoat is double breasted, the effect would be particularly grand.  This suit is perhaps one notch below the tuxedo, and for some, that may just be the problem as its relative formality reduces its utility.  For me, a double breasted in a plain or subtle self-weave seems a smarter choice, ideally in navy for its ability to appear rich, subdued and celebratory in equal parts.  And double breasted, for that configuration’s ability to appear formal and somewhat undone at the same time, something that must stem from the classical tension between the wrapped asymmetry and symmetrical buttons.  

    Now this is not a novel idea, but what separates a standard navy suit from the consummate party suit is the cloth. The right shade of navy is crucial.  Dark, true navies always look smart but can seem too severe in the afternoon.  A navy that has been permitted to retain more blue is better, as long as one doesn’t cross the invisible line that divides navies from blues.  How to know?  One must spend hours comparing similar swatches in every conceivable way until one is certain of the differences.  No, really.

    Chris Despos (my tailor) and I spent three full hours with what the casual observer would have noted were dozens of near identical swatches of navy suiting.  We ran between, dim, artificial and natural lighting.  We set several up about the room to determine how each rendered at varying distances.  I held many against my skin while gazing silently into a mirror like some vain pantomime.  It was a trying experience, but just when I thought I was losing grasp of the objective, my awareness of the subtleties suddenly peaked, and before me no longer lay countless scraps of navy cloth but a handful of real contenders whose differences where as dramatic as a book of tartan plaids.

    The winning cloth is a rich navy in a fine twill from H. Lesser’s Lumbs Golden Bale.  The cloth is a solid navy, although the subtle diagonal rib lends a certain surface interest, and the depth of color is extraordinary.  Some may take issue with the weight (10/11 ounces) considering this suit will often be worn in the summer, but I feel that is a small tariff considering the benefits of drape and longevity.  I fully expect to be wearing this suit in fifteen years.  Of course what conventional wedding dress will look like then is anyone’s guess.

The party DB relaxing before an evening out.

In the Pink

    Pink wine, like a pink shirt, is for an unserious occasion.  Both are personal favorites, which makes the coming weeks exciting.  Spring is the best time for pink.  As it happens, a recent birthday brought a length of pink chambray shirting as a gift, and, as if these things are cosmically prearranged, several bottles of rosé, rosato and rosado.

    Whether French, Italian or Spanish, and despite the wide range of styles, I find most pink wines function similarly: they stand in as softer, fleshier substitutes for white wines that might have too much acidic backbone for whatever food they accompany.  This is because pink wine is made from red grapes, the tint of color being determined by how long the pressed juice is left in contact with the grape skins.  In this sense one might think of pink wine as red wine light—an approachable chilled version with traces of the red varietal’s character.  That’s not to say they are typically complex wines; the appeal of pink wine is that it asks very little of the person drinking it.

    They should be served chilled, but need not be kept cold for the duration.  They are good picnic choices for this reason.  In fact, pink wine has always struck me as daytime wine.  As long as you don’t encounter anything more serious than quiche, or perhaps a ham sandwich, pink wine navigates lunchtime menus confidently.  And while they don’t exactly flounder in the evening, perhaps some of their pretty charm fades with the light.  

    Pink shirts pose more of a challenge.  I find they are strictly daytime shirts, and casual ones at that.  This insistence dictates everything from the type of cloth (ones with texture and noticeable weaves are preferred) to styling details (namely, barrel cuffs and casual collars).  One of my more cherished shirts is a nubby royal oxford with semi-spread collar and barrel cuffs.  I have to limit myself wearing it so it does not prematurely wear out—which is difficult as it works casually with everything: light gray suits, navy blazers, cream linen trousers, beneath a charcoal cashmere sweater.  

    And here is where I am running into a style dilemma.  The cloth sent me as a gift is a lovely chambray from Simonot Goddard (via A Suitable Wardrobe).  The chambray I've encountered has a casual, even workwear aspect to it, but this version is utterly refined.  So refined, in fact, that I am seriously tempted to have it made into a pair of French cuffed shirts.  But I usually reserve this more formal style of shirt for evening, so when and how these would be worn I’m not sure.  Sometimes a cloth rides roughshod over whatever notions have typically defined it. 

I’m open to suggestions.  Below, for inspiration, is a small gallery of pink wine, shirts and cloth.

Splitsville

Mated for life: this conservative mid-gray sharkskin suit would never work as separates.  Well, the trousers might stray.  

    If what to do with black loafers is at the top of the list of contentious menswear issues, a few rungs below is surely the hot debate surrounding when, if ever, the splitting of a suit is appropriate.  And as spring suggests itself as more than a vague concept, the debate is hotting up.

    The premise—that the issue is binary—is the problem.  I like instead to imagine a casual/formal spectrum, for which all matters of cloth, color, texture, details and historical precedent are accounted.  The further to the left the suit in question falls, the more successful the divorce; the further to the right, the better most do paired for the duration.  

    For instance, a donegal tweed suit featuring a coat with patch pockets and mottled horn buttons will stray from its trousers without a second thought.  The trousers, too, are easily worn odd.  By contrast, a dark blue worsted suit with jetted pockets and navy buttons flounders if split, the jacket (because of its details) not quite a blazer, the trousers (because of the sobriety of the cloth) rather limited.  

    Life would be simple if all suits so easily revealed their character.  But because several factors dictate formality most aren’t as obviously categorized as the above two examples.  A dark gray worsted suit with flap pockets and black buttons remains bound to its trousers—a forsaken, non-garment without them, like a single sock.  But I’m afraid the trousers aren’t quite as true, readily making themselves available to any number of outfits, from sweaters to navy blazers.  That’s just the inherent personality of gray trousers.  One-sided love is always this cruel. 

    And then there are suits where one suspects either party could stray, although it remains unclear how enthusiastically.  The Glorious Twelfth book I highlighted several days ago is packed with cloths with wandering, albeit, unsure, tendencies.  They are worsted cloths (more formal) made to look like tweeds (casual).  Some have more surface interest (casual); some are almost solid (formal); others are boldly patterned (casual).  With these types of cloths split-ability really boils down to styling, and the customer must be clear in his intentions from the outset, or risk being burdened by a suit that is neither here nor there.   

    Some clothes enthusiasts commission navy suits with gadgets like swappable buttons in brass and horn with the hopes that this may mollify any marital disharmony between top and bottom when worn apart.  The idea may seem appealing, but I question whether  all the fiddling that must go on behind the scenes doesn’t deflate any prospect of real progress.  

    My laxest suit is a three-piece in a lovely glen plaid flannel, purpose-built for maximum adaptability.  My tailor, Chris Despos, and I discussed the configuration and the cloth extensively, before settling upon a fairly obvious formula.  I kept the details straightforward—no sport-inspired patch pockets or swelled edges—relying entirely upon the cloth’s fuzzy nap and bold pattern to permit the components their individual freedom.  The trousers work very well on their own beneath cashmere sweaters, or even as an alternative to plain flannels with a blazer.  The vest too looks good worn odd, especially around the holidays.  The jacket, with its usual suit configuration, is the most difficult separate, although it does compliment darker gray flannels.  But if scandal is the goal—if I want little old ladies to faint in the street and strict traditionalists to waggle their canes in my direction—I wear it with a good pair of dark denim jeans.

Menage-a-trois: this glen-plaid three piece flannel is as likely to spend the night apart as together.  

Light of Heart

    Porter & Harding's "Glorious Twelfth" is a book of 11 ounce worsted cloth made to suggest tweed.  I say suggest because non-woolen cloth at that weight will only ever be an imitation of the real ambling-through-the-gorse stuff.  The patterns and colors, however, are largely those of the country.  For some purists this is an uncomfortable compromise; Glorious Twelfth is neither fish-nor-fowl--and would certainly be helpless if confronted by either.

    The other way to view this collection: as ordinary worsted suiting with an array of unusual patterns and colors.  The trick here is to discern and ignore those with obvious country-lineage (the checks-on-light-grounds, for instance) focusing instead on the muted twills with tonal overchecks.  These would work for those occasions where navy and charcoal are too stiff, but a suit still feels right (school and informal religious functions come to mind).  

    If hearts are set on sport coats, the handful of busy little gun clubs seem to be a best bet.  I would think styling important here; skip-buttoning sleeves and patch pockets might emphasize the sporty nature of the cloth, but throat latches and belted backs might betray its light-weight, worsted heart.

Topical: Tropical

    We all know wool is versatile stuff, but ideal for the tropics?  So-called tropical cloths hover below the 10-ounce mark (positively stout by today's standards) but for many clothes enthusiasts remain the  benchmark for conservative warm-climate dress.  Of course not all tropicals are equal.  Many are tightly woven, slippery, lustrous… and about as breathable as a sandwich bag.  

    H Lesser's, pictured below, are rather different.  This edited collection is matte, breathable, traditional and dry.  For the true tropics?  Perhaps not.  But certainly ideal for summer throughout much of the US.  Which hints at the final point to be made about lighter cloth: despite the bone-chattering current weather, now is the time to see your tailor for those balmy months ahead.  

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.  

The Trouser Revelations

Even cling-prone flannel drapes well in this cut.

“I grow old… I grow old…

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock  - T.S. Elliot

A condensed overview of my personal history with trousers would look like this:  shorts in adolescence followed by khakis and flannels worn throughout elementary and prep school.  The first major change came in college, when low-rise, sagging jeans were not just acceptable, but expected.  Up to this point I had not given too much thought to my figure, particularly as it related to pants.  But once wrapped in course denim that had been riveted into an unlikely form I realized something: my legs were shortish and rather muscled, and my torso long.  This configuration did not pair well with low-rise hip-huggers.  I realized something else, too: stiff, low-rise pants were terribly uncomfortable.   

It mustn’t have been too much of a crisis as I went on wearing this type of pant right out of college and into my early working life.  One day though, and really I can’t say what spurred it, I must have decided I no longer wished to compromise my lower half, and so I looked into proper trousers.  As successful shifts in custom do, this happened incrementally, first adopting slightly higher rise khakis that had fuller thighs, followed by flannels with more of both.  At some stage pleats and cuffs appeared. 

I now have a tailor who understands trousers on a profound level.  My pattern calls for a cut that sits around the waist.  And by waist, I am referring to that indentation that occurs above the hips, somewhere in the vicinity of the navel.  The fabric drapes from that point over my hips and thighs, beginning a careful but definite taper from just above the knee to the ankle, were can be found a whisper of break.  Single pleat; good crease; modest cuffs.  They are thoroughly masculine, lengthening my leg, balancing my torso and emphasizing a trim waistline.  They are also remarkably comfortable.

Now ordinarily this would be a rather dull personal development, but for one very real fact: high-rise, fuller-cut trousers are anathema to men’s fashion, and have been for almost two decades.  Oh, I imagine there have been avant-guarde experiments with fuller trousers at the loftiest fashion houses, but at the consumer level the message couldn’t be clearer: trim, low-rise trousers are what men wear.  This is so ingrained today that discussion of things like pleats and cuffs and navels leave my fashionable friends in disbelief.  I literally must appear before them in my trousers as proof that such a garment may effectively be worn by someone under fifty. 

And so we arrive at the question of age and trouser proportions, and by extension, poor Mr. Prufrock.  If there is one article of clothing most associated with becoming a man it would be the trouser.  Schoolboys once wore shorts, and it was a mark of adulthood to adopt long pants.  But these days the reverse seems more desirable.  Many men hold tightly to fashionably trim and low-rise pants as a way of suggesting youth is still within reach.  And while the look may work for some time, particularly if we remain fit, eventually all men are better served by trousers with an elongated and more elegant line.  Do we associate the latter with maturity?  We certainly do.  And what is the matter with maturity?

Elliot continues the earlier image of Prufrock rolling his trouser bottoms thusly: “I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.”  While he might have meant the line as a sign of resignation, I like to imagine there is also a suggestion of pride that comes with forfeiting the anxieties of youth in favor of comfort and personality.  Which reminds me; I must ask my tailor if he can source just such a lightweight, cream flannel—perfect for contemplative walks on the beach.

Darwin agrees: a higher rise supported with side straps represents an evolution in trousers.

Tweed Teaser

I find it helpful to look at cloth swatches during the appropriate season.  It's certainly too late to have anything made up for immediate wear, but what looks smashing in July might be frightening in the stark winter light.  The same holds true of viewing lightweight cloths during the height of summer.  Here is an abbreviated gallery of Porter & Harding's refined Glenroyal book (14 Oz.) and John G. Hardy's brutish Alsport ((16-22 Oz).  

Cloth Between Brothers

The navy suit in question, made of Lesser 13 ounce hopsack. 

Several years ago, in the intimate ballroom of Manhattan’s Carlyle Hotel, I stood and delivered a best’s man’s speech to the guests of my older brother’s wedding reception.  It was a mixed crowd; a younger set expected the groom to be well roasted; the aristocratic forehead of the Bride’s father, prominent and frightening even from a distance, reminded me, however, that his friends filled a majority of the seats and they expected banal brevity lest the consommé cool.

 I found my solution in my inbox.  For the better part of the previous year my brother and I had exchanged dozens of emails concerning the commissioning of a dinner jacket for the occasion. This had not been an ordinary exchange.  My brother is rather particular, and as even a casual reader here may gather, I too have my opinions.  Among other preferences, my brother does not tolerate any cloth that even remotely itches.  He wishes to be swathed in gossamer, and though I do not understand the compulsion, and tried mightily to sway him toward stouter stuff, it was his wedding, not mine.  

 And so what developed was a semi-technical exchange concerning microns and mohair, barathea and grosgrain, peaks and shawls--the sort of discussion to which anybody who doesn’t count themselves as a clothing enthusiast might raise an eyebrow.  My brother’s illustrative written style made my job easy when it came time to deliver the speech; why tell jokes when direct quotations, delivered in a controlled deadpan, prove far funnier?  

 At the heart of this light-hearted moment though is a debate about cloth.  The opposing camps could not be clearer: the majority seeks the finest, lightest and most ethereal cloths, whatever the cost, whereas a small but vocal minority rejects the modern efforts in favor of heavier, drier and more durable suit-stuff.  In many ways, it is the familiar “new” versus “old” debate in which one side (from behind German, rimless glasses) suggests technological innovation and the other (briar clenched between teeth) bloviates about longevity and tradition.  In short, I love my brother but he has despicable taste in cloth.  I imagine he would say the same of me.

I suppose wool itself must shoulder some of the blame.  It really is too versatile for it’s own good.  Italian firms in particular can make worsted suiting of such fineness one might easily confuse it for sheer linen.  Conversely, I have held 18 ounce semi-milled worsteds that might prove useful should one suddenly need to refinish a wooden skiff.  Confusing things is price.  Fine super cloths can be very expensive; the ready-wear market pushes suits in these cloths as luxury items and charges accordingly.  Of course a suit made of quality heavy British worsted is also an expensive item, albeit not one adopted by the ready-wear market.  There is another layer of complexity too: proponents on either side have launched propaganda campaigns.   One side suggests anything heavier than eight ounces is obsolete since the advent of central heating; the other responds with tales of split trousers and sleeves being ripped clean off by a determined enough breeze.  

The first suit Chris Despos made for me began life as a navy blazer.  I had wanted something sturdy for travel and weekly wear and had considered cloths from twists to serges.  I settled eventually upon a 13 ounce hopsack from Lesser’s 303 book.  The swatch seemed magical, rebounding from however I crumpled it in my hand and had a deceptive sort of weight at once greater and less than what the book’s cover indicated.  I’m not  sure we made it to a second fitting before we decided to add trousers.

 I realize opinion on a 13 ounce, densely woven hopsack suit might be divided.  It would positively send my brother to the funny farm.  But I must admit an obsession with the garment.  The depth of color is remarkable, managing to be unmistakably navy and not black or blue, a fate many a “navy” suit suffers.  The subtle weave is dead-matte in daylight, with enough surface interest to seem at home with madder, knit or woolen neckties.  It transforms at night, though, when that surface awakens with lustrous depth and richness enough to set off the sheen of foulard and satin.  Most importantly though it feels to me like a suit of clothes rather than a set of pajamas, a quality that should not be dismissed considering this suit has become my favored choice for more serious affairs where one might appreciate not feeling so exposed.  

Speaking of pajamas, a few months after his own wedding my brother was invited to an old friend's own nuptials, another Brit living in New York.  He was looking forward to the event until he learned the bride wished the groomsmen to wear morning suits.  My brother has lived in the States too long to necessitate morning clothes and so was compelled, along with five other saddened individuals, to rent.  On the day, the itch from the burlap-like cloth became so severe he felt he had no choice but to stop at a mid-town discount mall and purchase flannel pajamas which, despite a high in the mid-80s, he wore beneath for the duration.  

 Oh how I wish I had that gem the night of my speech.

Texture and depth: just two of the benefits of heavier cloth.