Wet Blanket

    At its worst, fear of caring for luxury knits can dissuade a person from straying from ordinary merino.  Which is strange, really, as the only major problems I’ve encountered washing knits seem to have been with merino (it wants to shrink).  Cashmere, vicuna, camelhair—the cost of these fibers might suggest expensive maintenance, but the opposite is true.  I wash my best knits at home, and it is a refreshingly undramatic event.

    In fact the expense involved in manufacturing luxury knits is what makes them so amenable to home maintenance.  Only the longest and thinnest individual fibers are selected from the naturally shed underbelly fur of the cashmere goat for the premium end of the market.   Once twisted into yarn and knit to shape, the result is not just soft and light, but strong, smooth and less prone to pilling because of the long initial fiber length.  The cheaper end of the market is another matter entirely, made primarily by blending the remaining underbelly fleece with ordinary wool, both of which have shorter and thicker individual strand lengths which pill, lose shape and fuzz more readily.  

    It is refreshing to actually get what you pay for, something that is rare in a retail environment in which marketing often muddies the question of quality.  And it is in washing luxury knits that the layers of quality can most clearly be seen.  Cheap cashmere acts like wool, resisting the process like a feral cat.  Whereas high quality knits, having been gently washed, slowly dried and carefully reshaped, emerge reborn as plusher, more refined versions of their prior selves.  I’m reminded of the Medieval trial by ordeal during which the accused is bound and thrown in a lake; the guilty barely survive the ordeal to their later detriment while the innocent succumb—difficult to witness, but ultimately worthy of admiration.  Either way, things are getting wet.

    The other option, the craftily named dry option, is to fork your valuable knits over to a stranger behind a counter.  I suppose there is some comfort in thinking of a dry cleaner as a professional;  within that word there is the promise of expertise.  But it pays to be curious about just why dry-cleaning is thought better.  The cleaning agent is typically a petrochemical, only a few carbon molecules away from gasoline, and effectively removes dirt and oil.  Of course knits are made of natural fibers which rely upon oil (lanolin) to remain conditioned, and this too is stripped during dry-cleaning.  The results are luxury knits that lose some luxury, eventually becoming course, dry and brittle.  

    But there is another, more sinister level to the prevalence of dry-cleaning.  The manufacturers of low-quality knits are quite brazenly shifting the responsibility for their shoddy wares to the cleaners.  Ask yourself honestly: if an inexpensive cashmere cardigan disintegrates at the cleaner who is to blame?  Does that party change if the same damage occurs while washing it at home?  Of course it does.  Sewing a Dry-Clean Only tag into something functions as a free pass for both the manufacturer and the customer; if something goes wrong, as is inevitable at the bottom end of the market, the world-weary cleaner will usually just pay for the garment.

Happily, washing luxury knits at home is straightforward if the following steps are taken:

Sort knits according to fiber and color, turn inside-out

Load into machine and set to coldest, gentlest setting, typically Hand Wash, Cold

Add a small amount of delicate laundry powder; Forever New is a favorite

Say a few solemn words; begin cycle

Close and lock (or actively guard) laundry room door

Immediately upon a finished cycle, remove knits

Arrange knits to dry flat in an unheated, well-ventilated and clean space*

When thoroughly dry, carefully reshape each using clean, dry hands

Fold and store

*A room dedicated to this purpose, complete with custom shaped wire racks and a de-mumidifier would be ideal.  Wire-backed chairs or a towel-covered table will do.

Core Competency

    In the wrong hands, sweater vests happily fail.  During the last primaries, Rick Santorum, US presidential hopeful and vest enthusiast, demonstrated this principle masterfully, even hocking a limpid version embroidered with his campaign logo in a late effort to raise critical funds.  It, and he, failed; irony is just not the stuff from which presidents are made.  I must confess that this particular stunt offended far more than the typical ribbing that ordinarily clings to sweater vests and their advocates.  I often wear them and have grown accustomed to the occasional gibe, but any attempt at marginalizing this practical garment as mere costume cuts too deeply.  

    Sleevlessness alone isn’t the problem: down vests, waistcoats from three-piece suits, flak jackets—these don’t attract ridicule like their knit cousins.  In truth, the opposite is true as the above examples are the stuff of adventurers, power brokers and soldiers.  At best a sweater vest is tidy, at worst, a signifier of a stock nerd—an instant Steve Urkel or Rick Moranis.  This isn’t accidental though.  Nerds are nothing if not practical, and the sweater vest really is a remarkably practical thing.  

    The reasons why are both demonstrable and metaphysical.  Layered dressing works well because each successive layer of clothing multiplies the air pockets that aid in insulating the body.  Unlike one heavy layer, several lighter layers can be shed or added as need arises.  The problem is wearing several layers can feel restrictive, especially though the shoulders and arms.  By eliminating sleeves, a sweater vest can comfortably reside between shirt and jacket, insulating the torso while leaving the major joints free to comfortably operate.

    But there is more to a sweater vest than common sense.  A day spent in one provides a difficult to categorize experiential aspect.  Freedom of movement is important, as is insulation of the core, but the sum is somehow greater than the parts.  I suspect it makes the wearer feel clever for having been practical.  This is especially the case when it comes to travel.  Here sweater vests really shine, from the dramatic temperature differences between cabs, terminals and cabins to the greatly reduced space they seem to require in a case.  When packing room is limited, a sweater vest also seems to multiply looks; a navy blazer or tweed coat gains new life once a characterful sweater vest is slipped beneath.

    As is so often, the intersection of practicality and versatility is also the entry point for style.  The wearer is inevitably a thinking man, but not one so fastidious as to be concerned with the potential of looking a tad square.  He instead dabbles equally in fair isle and argyle, camel hair and cashmere, unconcerned that one or the other might disrupt some meta-harmony of an otherwise restrained composition.  He might even be considered louche.  But, importantly, he's also warm around the middle.

Neck on the Line

McQueen inspired

    What’s in a name?  For sweaters with extended neck lines, everything.  I fail to see why rollneck is the term preferred by most style writers; it’s one typo away from neck roll.  I have heard these sweaters called polo-necks, which is obviously another attempt to anoint a garment with the allure of the sport of kings—an increasingly crowded category considering how few people play polo.  All these permutations are intentionally less evocative of this noble sweater’s best name; the turtleneck is cool precisely because it is sort of square.  Anyway, what’s the problem with turtles, creatures that symbolize the archetypical male characters famous for having worn them—tough on the outside, all pulpy within?

    No conversation about turtlenecks could possibly take place without acknowledging Steve McQueen in Bullit (1968).  The British racing green mustang was cool, but it’s McQueen’s navy turtleneck beneath his brown tweed that remains the enduring symbol of the film.  Of course that’s also the problem; style writing in major media likes to reference Bullit, treating the film and its lasting aesthetic as validation for the turtleneck’s existence.  As compelling as McQueen is, so thin a treatment opens the turtleneck up to similarly cheap negative judgements.  As even a casual internet search for turtlenecks reveals, images of guys doing their best McQueen account for about a third of the result; the other two-thirds are humorous memes and catastrophic attempts at style.  

    So the turtleneck is divisive, perhaps more so than any other traditionally male garment.  But I’m convinced the division isn’t the love/hate sort.  Rather, I think turtlenecks are just more susceptible to disaster, and many have made up their minds based upon a single train wreck.  Too skimpy and they look like thermal layers; too thick and the wearer appears chin-deep in quicksand; not formal; not entirely casual; often too warm; never invisible.  At the center of the difficulty is the fact that great variety exists in turtlenecks; choosing wisely requires a little experience and a good deal more common sense.

Sunspel makes terrific lightweight knits in every imaginable sweater-configuration.  King among them are the turtlenecks.  

    I wear two types of turtlenecks, but there are probably  three or four categories.  By a considerable margin, the easiest to wear are lightweight turtlenecks of fine merino wool.  These work especially well beneath navy blazers and tweed jackets where they appear casual because of the nature of the material (a knit), but cleanly delineated and somehow more serious than expected.  It is a good look for a cool-headed antagonist—one who creates rather than follows rules, all while warding off the damp chill of his underground lair.  At the other end of the spectrum are the heavyweights with texture or knitted patterns.  These are worn on their own or, if outside in the real cold, a heavy overcoat or shell.  The look is more hero-poet than bond-villain, but either are smart change-ups from the usual coat and tie.  In between lightweight and heavyweight, however, is a no-mans-land of middleweights that are too bulky beneath jackets, but not substantial enough on their own.  And lurking throughout are all manner of misguided variations: stubby-little mock turtlenecks, stitched-down faux rolls, droopy and feminine cowl necks.  The real thing has a densely knit tube that doubles over on itself to create the clean, masculine band around the neck, accentuating the jawline and drawing attention to the face.

    There are some practical matters to consider.   Collars, of course, don’t work, which leaves the habitual shirt-wearer with two options: wear nothing, which is possible with the lightweight merino variety, or buy some closely fitting undershirts.  Remember that turtlenecks are warm, and often too warm for crowded dining rooms or bars.  Holiday parties in private homes seem like the correct venue, but all those roaring fireplaces and tankards of glühwein will have most men quickly overheating.  I wear mine when I know I will be mostly outdoors—sporting events, long walks, picnics, visits to drafty museums, trick-or-treating with the kids, shopping at the farmer’s market.  But the very best excuse for a turtleneck, as McQueen demonstrates so well, is a car chase.  Short of that, a leisurely drive with the windows down will do fine.

The Ape Apes

    I’m reluctant to say anything regarding vintage clothes, let alone reveal an opinion on the stuff.  As divisive topics go, positions within the genre are seemingly chiseled in granite, and experts are as plentiful as the orphaned suit coats that populate most of the vintage shops I’ve visited.   I’m not even certain what constitutes vintage, a designation that, when said aloud, sounds awfully near a more familiar, less obtuse term: old.  And yet I have unwittingly contributed to the concept, having given away (and in a few instances, sold) good quality clothing and shoes for which I no longer had a need—items that in forty years or so might haunt the racks of scattered second-hand shops.  Actually, I’m in deeper than that: I own a few vintage pieces myself.  What’s more, I cherish them.  

    My father is the primary source, and it never fails to tickle him seeing these garments reanimated.  I suppose the first layer of entertainment comes from seeing something familiar worn in an unfamiliar way.  In my twenties I used to wear a stodgy old houndstooth odd jacket of his with battered denim and driving loafers—a fate no one could have predicted when he bought it from Harrods in the sixties.  But I think a deeper current of pleasure exists for the original wearer: the bittersweet realization that garments that might not seem particularly old have gained an ironic appeal for the current wearer.

    The question of irony is a constant in the matter of vintage clothing.  I must admit a particular distaste for calculated irony in clothing, a category that for me spans from clever slogans on t-shirts straight through to bespoke button boots.  I prefer ernest attempts at personal style.  The problem, of course, is any line between the genuine and the affected is invisible, or purposely obscured, or verboten from being identified.  Put another way, irony vanishes the instant it is acknowledged.  I have a vintage Pringle sweater of my father’s with a single, exploded argyle rendered in pastels.  In university, to emphasize its unlikely presence, I wore it beneath a black motocross jacket.  The effect was singular, striking—but unrepeatable in its contrivance.  Fifteen years on, I feel comfortable wearing it again—this time over mid-gray flannels, and not even on Easter.

    And what would wearable postmodernism look like?  A high-concept couture gown that rejects its own label and categorization as a dress?  Androgynous Lycra separates which simultaneously display and conceal?  My vintage entry into postmodernism is the result of a more literal self-reference: the dustiest of ancient madder prints—buff and red paisleys on a gold and navy ground—but rendered in cheap cotton twill and cut and sewn into a humble button-collar work shirt.  The ideas at play have been deeply mined from the masculine cannon, but the result is surprisingly soft, feminine even.  I wear it for lounging at home, and more than once has its reflected image startled.

    My own contribution to the constant gyre of vintage clothing will materialize in waves.  It’s too difficult to discern a pattern in gestational period—how long some garment must hang in stasis before regaining its appeal for someone new.  Will it be only a few years before my graphic-print t-shirts— embarrassingly tight, occasionally threadbare—lure my daughters with the same irreverent slogans and self-conscious images that once seemed important to me?  Or will it take forty years before a curious nephew unearths my favorite trilby?  Are my tailored garments really just costumes for some unknown grandchild?  Among these unanswerables is a certainty: old clothes have value.

Knit Picking

Behold--the world's most versatile garment.  Made by Sunspel.

   In the context of clothing, summer is far less predictable than winter.  Cold weather always requires layers of covering; whether 13 ounce worsted or 15 ounce flannel, whether a shetland vest beneath tweed or a lightweight cashmere roll-neck beneath camelhair—these decisions are about personal tolerance.  The wearer can shed or pile on as necessary.  Not so for summer.  Depending on the occasion, warm weather might have one in a suit, where light or breathable cloth is the only defense against challenging heat, or on the beach where trunks and a polo are suddenly inadequate against a stiff, onshore breeze.  I have experienced that last scenario too often; I now always bring a sweater to the beach.

    What qualifies a knit as a warm weather garment is the construction and/or the composition.  The most disappointing garment I have ever owned had high marks in both categories—an expensive lisle cotton crew-neck.  Perhaps the problem was that it was too good; by the end of season two it was unsalvageable.  I hear knit linen is more durable than cotton, with many of the same cool-wearing properties, but its loose weave and droopy weight always remind me of fishing nets—not the seaside connotation I am aiming for.

    In my experience, merino wool is far superior to either.  A relatively high-twist means the yarn can be woven to a smooth, breathable finish that is at once resilient and very fine.  The result is something that won’t wilt in a beach bag and is smart enough for casual lunches and dinners.  Merino is soft enough to be worn against bare skin—preferably this way in warm climates as when layered the insulation multiplies—and will launder easily on a delicate cycle or in a hotel sink.  Laid flat on a towel-covered luggage rack before heading out, a merino sweater will be dry well before cocktail hour.  

The collared knit: at home on boat decking or under an odd coat.

    The way the neck is finished is what gives these various sweaters their names: crew-neck, v-neck, polo-neck, turtleneck.  I have one of each, but I might as well have just one: a navy cardigan.  In merino, this configuration might be the apex of versatility in wardrobe theory.  I wear mine over shirts and under tweed, over polos at the beach and under a blazer to dinner.  I can vaguely recall the last time I travelled without it: I was chilly.

    Actually all merino knits are good for travel; in addition to resilience and versatility, they are thin enough to pack without sacrificing too much space.  I find they also suggest themselves in ways they might not when home; a navy polo-collared merino knit really is very dashing with cream linen trousers.  And v- and crew-necks are perhaps a man’s best excuses for neckerchiefs.  Could these knits be the link between all elements of masculine style?  Perhaps, but I should stop before readers suspect me of having a stake in the global merino wool trade.