A Scrooge Gets Dressed

Red and green toned down.  

    It’s tempting to pose the question baldly: why do otherwise conservatively dressed people slip into costume around the holidays?  But doing so gives the impression of a fusty wraith, passing silent judgement from the shadows of a canapé display.  I’m not that ghost of Christmas present; I don’t so much mind the silly sweaters and un-entitled tartan.  Red socks have never once given me indigestion.  Of course, like everything else, I often wonder if most efforts wouldn’t benefit from a few sensible parameters.  

    I recently heard an interview with horror film director Wes Craven in which he discussed the creation of Freddy Kreuger, who wears a red and green striped sweater.  Apparently he chose the two colors after himself hearing a neurologist describe the combination as the most jarring and discordant for the human brain to process.  I’m happy to finally learn I’m not alone.  Primary red and secondary green are oil and water, and when mixed, protest loudly.  Strangely, the instant an additional color is introduced things improve, and all is well once either (or preferably both) are darkened to, say, burgundy and olive.  In fact, dark red and green, along with vibrant navy, yellow, white and black are the principle shades used in the most familiar tartans, and who would argue with that sort of lineage?

    Speaking of tartan, it’s best in small doses.  We’ve all passed holiday store windows that groan beneath heaps of contrasting tartan, the mannequins within either too sozzled on claret punch or too consumed in their own layers of velvet and plaid to notice.  The truth is, outside of those rose-tinted displays and exposed to the harsh winter light, tartan reveals itself for what it is: distinctive cloth designed for ceremony.  That’s not to say a well-deployed waistcoat or wool tie isn’t in good taste; it can be, as long as the wearer is: a. aware of what it is he is wearing and b. not inclined to its overindulgence.  A true Scotsman, entitled to a tartan, might wonder what marketing distortion has lead to his becoming associated with the American holiday season, but I will leave that up to the unhappy wearer who encounters said fellow (and his dirk).

All bets are off when relaxing at home.  

    Finally, figures.  I suppose the fair isle sweater, a personal favorite, is to blame.  So intricate are the traditional patterns of these colorful knits that one could be forgiven for mistaking some fragment for a jaunty snowflake.  But doing so opens the floodgates to the literal figure and it doesn’t take long before reindeers and St. Nick, all rubicund and knowing, begin appearing on ties and scarves Thanksgiving through Boxing Day.  Like Jeeves, Bertie Wooster’s sensible valet, I draw my personal line at literal figures.  And not just outside of the holiday season; pheasants, grouse, venison and bunnies all look better well-roasted on a platter than they do on accessories.  Bah, as the saying goes, humbug.

What, the merry reader might ask, am I afraid of?  I will call it the Victorian Effect, named after a recent outing for afternoon tea in a well meaning hotel that, in an effort to enhance holiday cheer, hired a group of carolers.  They were excellent, with one small exception: all five of them wore period costumes of pleated velvet capes, brocade waistcoats and stovepipe hats.  I might be alone in thinking it, but Christmas is somehow cheapened when we indulge cliches as a way of wringing out every half ounce of cheer.  I think the same applies to how we dress for the social events of the season.  Anyway, what’s the matter with moderation?

Frightening Insight

    Edgar Allan Poe, in relation to the way his fellow Americans furnished their homes, offered this broad criticism:

This vintage Apparel Arts diagram attempts to chart color and texture for each component of male dress, and, in doing so, makes a complicated matter even less clear.  

“By a transition readily understood, and which might have been as readily foreseen, we have been brought to merge in simple show our notions of taste itself.”

    His is a direct snipe at the inevitable materialism that grows alongside a moneyed place—the grotesqueness of unchecked purchase-power.  Poe identifies the English alone in distinguishing beauty from mere magnificence, an ability that originates with the aristocracy (for whom nobility is a higher goal than wealth).  Off course, Poe never likely anticipated the ease with which materialism as an end in of itself might diffuse; even without the internet, a costly bauble is far easier to acquire than the sound taste to avoid its conspicuous display.  And, really, what corners of this shrinking world remain immune?

    Who knew Poe felt so passionately about interior decoration?   His Philosophy of Furniture, which first appeared in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine in 1840, goes on to describe an ideal room in crimson, gold and pale gray.  It is softly lit and sparingly filled.  One might describe it as modest, although that loaded term suggests a whiff of constraint rather than restraint.  No--whether the owner of Poe’s room is able to sumptuously fill it or not is irrelevant; instead he pursues composition and harmony.  These terms resonate with me, but perhaps because I am not an interior decorator, I prefer to consider Poe’s philosophy scaled down to clothing.

    Composition seems to me a process of adding based upon context.  Formality, season and activity establish context, with lesser roles played by company, forecast and location.  Once in the neighborhood—say, a warm-weather wedding in a city—garments must be added together.  A lightweight navy suit, a white shirt, a silver tie, black shoes.  But consider the choices within each.  Is the suit patterned?  Is the shirt poplin, pinpoint or twill?  Does the tie have figures or texture, the shoes laces or not?  This to say nothing of handkerchieves, socks and cufflinks, a few of the common points at which poor decisions can quickly detract from the whole.   The secondary sub-choices within categories seem small, but when viewed together, matter greatly to composition.

    Harmony, then, emerges as a process of subtracting.  In the casual analogue to the above example, imagine a cool-weather event in the suburbs that suggested to our same model corduroy trousers, a checked shirt, a knit vest, and a lightweight tweed jacket.  He is tieless, and perhaps because of this, selects a handsome silk handkerchief for his jackets breast pocket.  The forecast suggests drizzle so he takes a felt trilby along, and if it's inclement enough for a hat, why not a scarf and unlined gloves?  All of these items, including his socks, are in autumnal hues, and yet, as he looks at himself before leaving, he sees the composition is awry.  Harmony is still possible, but only after an offending hatband or handkerchief is dismissed, or some more invasive action is required, like the swapping of a busy shirt or jacket for something quieter.  Rather than being thoroughly conceived of from the start, harmony is arrived at by removing noise.

    The common factor between composition and harmony is in managing the variables.  Simpler compositions and easier harmonies are achieved with fewer variables, but the trade-off is sophistication.  The best dressers always have more happening than is immediately obvious—a solid that fractures to a self-pattern up close, a texture that emerges when within whispering range.  Beware though; it is in the allure of hidden features that the greatest pitfall also lurks: novelty.  Bright linings, mismatched buttons, contrasting thread—these and more might seem near relatives to the techniques of the advanced dresser, but where the former’s are subtle these are conspicuous.  Worse, they are the unnecessary variables that complicate dressing—they are Poe’s elements of “show.”

Fifty shades, weights, textures, and, ultimately, effects of gray.  

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 Sensible Wash Their Socks at Night

From left: cotton mesh, lightweight wool, silk, and heavy merino.  

    Socks are the single wrench in the workings of an otherwise good marriage.  I already handle my shirts—laundering, line-drying and hand-pressing—and what little dry-cleaning I do is accomplished a few times each year with the help of a very small business and a very large dose of faith.  I don’t believe in precious athletic clothes and underwear, so mine get heaped in with the general population.  This leaves socks, an innocent sounding statement that might as well read: this leaves air, or, this leaves purpose.  

    Why do socks inhabit so precious a place?  Imagine, for a moment, a young boy.  He is an active boy, but also an observant one.  One who climbs old fir trees and scraps with the neighborhood toughs, but also watches carefully as his father ties his tie and laces his shoes.  He can’t say why, but his clothes seem more important to him than they do for other boys his age.  He gets older and his interest in clothes strengthens.  Rather than suppressing his interest, he seeks edification; it comes disguised in books and movies.  He makes the expected mistakes of an amateur, lured astray by the siren call of fashion magazines, but returns loyally  to what he loves: classic clothing, as functional as it is handsome.  His preferences calcify.  He notices the small things—shirt collars that gap or pinch, trousers that bunch or bind.  One day, he turns his attention to socks.  He is dissatisfied with the wimpy, pooling mid-calf socks that are the department store standard.   His salvation comes as a gift; a pair of socks that, because of their length, he assumes are a mistake.  In a rush one day he slips them on.  It is a revelation; the socks stay up, held smartly above the bulge of his calf by a gently elasticized opening.  He seeks out several more pairs.  Soon, he turns his attention to his trousers; in order to maximize the comfort and style of his excellent new over-the-calf socks, he begins seeking trousers with fuller legs and more precisely hemmed bottoms.  The line of these trousers craves jackets with more nuance—a fuller chest, a nipped waist and a natural shoulder.  This elegant silhouette deserves only classic accessories; his shirts and ties are purchased with versatility in mind and his shoes are unimpeachably correct.  It is not long before his wardrobe has molded itself around his now considerable collection of quality socks.  

    So: it all begins with socks.  Some say the shoe is the foundation of a good wardrobe; these people have obviously never had cheap socks puddled like leg warmers below their calves.  It is impossible to feel stylish—let alone look it—if every few minutes attention is turned to adjusting socks.  A hairy and exposed shin, it should go without saying, is also a style killer.  Men used to solve this problem with garters; these held socks in place, but were fiddly and slightly too reminiscent of lingerie.  Happily, elastic and knitting technologies improved, and the modern over-the-calf sock was born.  The best examples today can be made of fine cotton, silk, wool and cashmere or blends in any combination.  They can have texture, like ribbing, and be woven with contrasting yarns to create any of the classic menswear patterns: chalk-stripes, pinstripes, checks, plaids, herringbone and dog-tooth.   Choosing correctly from this vast library deserves an essay of its own, but several pairs in a good pattern and color, say, ribbed flannel grey wool, are indispensable in dressing efficiently and, ultimately, well.

    The problem with good socks is they must be carefully laundered.  The danger of shrinking, running and losing is real.  And so I return to how I began: if good socks are going to be worn, their maintenance is the sole responsibility of the wearer.  Here is how:

Remove socks, fold together and hide from the person who ordinarily does the laundry.

Wait until 3AM; the washing machine will be vacant and the danger of someone interfering with the cycle, minimal.

Inventory your socks; a spreadsheet isn’t necessary but a pen and paper is helpful.

Verify that the machine is free of clothes; bright red shirts often lurk in its recesses, waiting to turn everything pink.

Add socks.  Select the coldest, gentlest setting and launder using premium, delicate-cycle washing powder.

The instant the cycle is finished, remove socks and take inventory.

Hang in pairs on shirt hangers in a cool and airy space.

When dry, immediately fold and return to sock drawer.

Taken by the Lapel

A carnation, surgically removed from its horrific bindings and unnecessary embellishments..  

    My wedding went off without so much as a hiccup—at least that is what the official line is.  Few know, however, that at the very precipice, as the last grains of bachelorhood tumbled through the narrows of the hourglass, a calamity loomed that might have been too omen-like to proceed with the ceremony had the groom been superstitious.  My boutonnière, despite exhortations and assurances to the contrary, arrived a large and unwieldy thing.  It had no chance of fitting its girth through the buttonhole of my tuxedo.  And with no time for last minute surgery to relieve the noble carnation at the center of all the ribbon and sprigs and tape, it was unceremoniously pinned to my lapel.  There it chafed the grosgrain facing; there it chafed my sensibility; there, in photographs, it chafes to this day.  

    I forgave my bride, but if I ever run across that florist he had better hope his pruning shears are well out of reach.  Why blame the florist?  Because it is this otherwise respected profession that is responsible for the perversion of the boutonnière.  Do a simple image search; the results will reveal lapels groaning under everything from seaweed to clouds of moss.  I don’t doubt the artistry involved in conceiving of and hand-making these displays, but I’m not interested in sacrificing my own understated style so a florist can look pleased with his work.  Also—and it really cannot be ignored—florists can charge a great deal more for these grandiose boutonnières than would be tolerated for the individual stem.

    This leaves a single way to ensure the boutonnière is correct: walk into a florist, request one flower, pay for it, and then, as if the thought has just occurred to you, snap off all but two inches of the stem, slipping the remainder through your lapel’s buttonhole.  Do not, whatever happens, hand the flower back to the florist to cut it; I guarantee it will return wrapped in tape with some cheap ribbon or forlorn spray flowers.  The problem with this scenario is because they are inexpensive, rare is the florist who has a fresh stock of carnations for individual sale, let alone in suitable colors.

    The complications so far outlined will inevitably lead the flower-less man to what seems like a sensible and permanent solution: the watered silk boutonnière.  I don’t disagree that high quality silk flowers make very convincing facsimiles.  The efficiency of the guise also appeals.  I’m nevertheless unconvinced.  It seems too slippery a slope; first false flowers and then, what, those T-shirts printed to look like tuxedoes?  If I’m going to wear a flower, I want it to visibly wilt as the evening progresses, until, in a dramatic signal that the party is over, it can be pulled from the lapel and flung.  

    Why wear a flower in the first?  Actually, I rarely do.  I used to wear them for other people’s weddings, which is technically correct, but gave the practice up after one too many sidelong looks from relatives of the bride and groom which seemed to say: who the blazes are you?  But for daytime events, like christenings, or non-ceremonial evening events, like galas or the opera, few other accessories have quite the same effect.  A single flower in the lapel is grand, pushing the man’s suit to the precipice of elegance.  But do remember: even the slightest further embellishment will send you hurtling over the edge. 

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.

Sewing Envy

The (stylish) man thinketh.

    Autumn’s vanguard arrives annually the week following Labor Day in the form of meticulously contrived and photographed look books.  I receive scads of the things, always feigning annoyance as I pry them from my mail slot.  The mail lady sees through my charade though; I forgo the wastepaper bin, tuck the goods and stiff-arm my way to the elevator bank.  When I find the time, I indulge freely.  It was Somerset Maugham who put it best: “I have not been afraid of excess: excess on occasion is exhilarating.  It prevents moderation from acquiring the deadening effect of a habit.”  An hour later, the effect is that of too much clotted cream.  Except tweed and suede.  For all the preaching classic menswear enthusiasts do concerning restraint and moderation, it is satisfying to swim in the exuberant arranging, layering and posing of the expert stylist gone wild with quality menswear. 

    The unrivaled champion of the look book is Paul Stuart, the American clothier and haberdasher founded in New York in the late 30s.  This will not be so surprising for anyone who has visited the shops; they are monuments to Anglo-American style groaning with ancient madder, cashmere and tweed.  This year’s look book collects the finest examples in the Smithsonian Institution where forlorn and bearded models contemplate the John Singer Sargent exhibition.  What Paul Stuart does so well is make the implausible feel natural.  An olive cashmere flannel suit with double breasted waistcoat is impossible, until one sees it worn by a man deep in thought over an American masterpiece.  The piece-de-resistance, however, is a vicuña topcoat in an exploded glen plaid with velvet collar.  The model is accessorized with peccary gloves, whangee umbrella and a velour fedora.  You know what they say about nothing exceeds etc.   Incidentally, the setting isn’t random; Paul Stuart is currently building a store in DC—not far from the Smithsonian.  

    Further South, in Charleston South Carolina, is the home of a menswear brand that I have never fully understood: Ben Silver.  I can’t speak to the quality of the ready-to-wear offerings, but I assume it is well enough if men still patronize.  It is the styling I struggle with.  On the Anglo-American spectrum, Ben Silver caroms wildly, from a vast selection of actual regimental ties (that might cause offense if worn by a civilian) to ties with embroidered jockeys—the sort of thing one might imagine Rodney Dangerfield wearing after hitting it big on race seven.  Their Autumn look book is soulless, or, more accurately, headless: the models are photographed from the neck down which displays the clothes nicely, but removes the moody human element that makes paging though Paul Stuart’s effort so rewarding.  The compositions are nice though, and bravo for the double breasted tweed on page ten.  

    Finally, Bloomingdales.  I admit some of the pleasure derived from these look books stems not from admiration, but from that baser quality of the clothes enthusiast: smugness.  For those readers who might not be aware, it is currently said that we are experiencing a renaissance in menswear—that the self-conscious drabness that some say marked the first decade of this millennium is giving way to a happier, classic aesthetic.  This sounds terrific, but the execution is often questionable.  In many instances, this rediscovery of masculinity boils down to a single stroke: the use of glen plaid.  That the trousers are skin tight, or the jackets cropped higher than my wife’s matters little; the visual reference of the pattern is what counts.  The other tool in the marketing arsenal is narrative.  Models appear as athletes, eco-warriors and, my personal favorite, off-the-grid woodsmen.  This last trope has a fashionably attired model traipsing through the forest in trousers that would split within the first few minutes of a proper hike and conspicuous work boots with electric blue lug soles.  His companion is a white wolf; not to worry, the model hasn’t enough flesh on him.

    The fundamental principle behind all look books is this: ready-to-wear clothing requires fantasy.  A photograph of a blazer leaves most men cold.  Worn by a handsome model paddling his date around in a skiff, Champagne picnic awaiting in the near distance, the blazer enters some other part of the brain, namely that ruled by desire.  Whether I care for the clothes or not is irrelevant; I appreciate the fun stylists are having with the narrative, however silly some of the results are.  In an attempt to gain more control, I have moved away from ready-to-wear in recent years.   While acting as one’s own designer can be very satisfying, it can also be a lonely hobby.  Perhaps the look book is less a guilty pleasure then; maybe my attraction is just that old sentiment envy, urging me to wonder whether the cashmere is really softer on the other side.

Child's Play

Don't let the innocent faces fool you; I'm fairly certain a few cherry bombs had just been lit in the bathroom.

    I recently discovered a cache of photographs dating from the mid eighties.  They are of me and friends or family, and because film still had the aspect of being finite, the settings are limited to special occasions—weddings, birthdays, graduations.  I was an active young boy; things like tablets having not yet been invented, I instead played in the woods and grappled with friends.  Dressing for special occasions did not prevent me from these pursuits, however, and I recall a persistent tension between being in good clothes and wanting to, say, organize a bonfire.  Precisely because of that tension these photographs are a source of inspiration, and in studying three in particular, an enviable authenticity reveals itself.

    The first photograph finds me and a friend on a boat in the Hudson River.  It is a wedding and I am appropriate in a navy suit.  A red and gold foulard is snugly cinched into the collar of a white shirt, but otherwise left askew and flapping.  A lapel folds and hair is anything but smoothed.   My friend, a more adventurous spirit than me, stares into the camera, challenging the viewer to say something about his choice of odd jacket and navy trousers for so formal an occasion.  That the jacket is double breasted and carries a jaunty check reinforces his cocktail-wielding swagger.  The lesson couldn’t be plainer: actual dishevelment is superior to artful dishevelment.  Only the most tedious dresser would intentionally cause a tie to flap or permit a little thing like propriety to ruin his evening.

Lock up your daughters.

    I am maybe a year older in the second photo, and, perhaps influenced by the Welsh countryside that is the setting, more casually turned out.  My cousin and I are on our way to an outdoor school function—an ideal setting to this day for the dependable navy blazer and tan trouser combinations we both have chosen.  A closer inspection reveals rich detail.  My jacket is a low-slung four-on-one double breasted, a style named after the man who popularized it—The Duke of Kent.  I wear it brazenly unbuttoned.  My cousin tucks his tie into his pants.  My boutonniere is set at a rakish angle.  A penny-loafered foot juts out beneath rumpled chinos revealing white socks.  Refusing to fuss over one’s clothes takes real restraint, or, as is the case when eleven, truly not giving a whiff.  Sadly, today I do care; I actively resist smoothing lapels and adjusting ties.  If I could only have retained the nonchalance of my youth.  

    The third and last photograph is the most causal look, and I will begin with the obvious lesson therein: active wear should be made of rougher materials and with durability in mind, but no less coordinated than more formal clothes.  Casualness is not an opportunity for slovenliness, or, as is often the case, colorblindness.  To wit: blue-on-ivory check flannel shirt, navy cable-knit sweater vest, regimental ribbon belt, pale blue needle cords.  Ideal clothes for whatever mischief the weekend promises.

Who are you calling matchy-matchy?

    To be truly inspirational, the confluence of dress and activity must be genuine.  I see too many kids parading around in carefully conceived “outfits” today, playing the part but ultimately too concerned with scuffing their special edition athletic shoes.  Ask yourself—what’s cooler:  a kid dressed as a skater skating, or that same kid, following some event, hitting a rail in chinos, blazer, tie and penny loafers?  This is, of course, well understood in cinema.  The same principle has Cary Grant in a suit dodging a crop duster, or any number of Bonds actively ruining a dinner jacket.  There is style in treating one’s clothes as clothes rather than rare possessions, but we adults can only hope to do it with the abandon of a child.

Making The List

    Although I’m almost guaranteed to object, I can barely resist lists of things with the word best in the title.  I could happily spend a Sunday morning knitting my brow over some frothy Best Kitchen Gadgets list.  And at the top of the heap of subjects that provide this cynical pleasure are lists that try and corral something abstract, like style, into a rough spreadsheet.  For those I clear an entire weekend.

    If we (I assume I have not solely instigated their proliferation) try to identify why lists like these are attractive, the brutal conclusion is this: it is self-edifying to quietly and confidently disagree with an authority.  To look at a picture of a semi-famous person in questionable clothing, and know, at a fundamental level, that things could be so much better, makes us, the reader, feel good about what hangs in our own armoires.  And when that authority is a long-time arbiter of style and society, like Vanity Fair, the stakes for the reader are much greater.  September’s Style issue is out, and I imagine chops have already been well-licked and ink spilled in dissecting the best dressed lists, the men’s in particular.  

    If we can disentangle ourselves from notions of fashion and style for a moment, and focus instead on the words best dressed, we might begin to understand how an influential publication goes about navigating so abstract a project.  The word best seems specific, but is actually vague and thin.  It assumes inferiority in relation, but doesn’t suggest a metric, like volume or number, or even any suggestion of character, like richness or softness.  The omission of detail is purposeful: best is sincere shorthand.  But without substance, most usage is unavoidably ironic.  Dressed, by contrast, means something.  If we ignore all the secondary meanings (salads, windows, wounds) we are left with: clothed or furnished with clothing.  But clothed for what?  Dinner?  Larceny?  Abseiling?  Indeed the usage is general, which is why dressed is usually followed by something more specific, like for the part or to kill.  Without a qualifier, though, dressed is unmoored, even theoretical.   Best dressed, then, seems to mean an unspecified state of having clothes on—an idea broad enough to encompass more or less anything.  

    Vanity Fair’s list seems to support this definition.  Ten men are listed, all with varying levels of celebrity, but perhaps only two or three with even remotely similar approaches to personal style.  Musician Pharrell Williams has long been on my radar for how well he puts together articles of sports and street wear.  His layered outfits of cardigans, necklaces, punched-out fedoras and unlaced athletic shoes are, if anything, well conceived.  Retired bullfighter Miguel Baez appears on the same page in fairly classic bespoke garments.  The intended message might be that Vanity Fair appreciates diversity in style; the effect, however is that they’ve lost their bearings—that an editorial voice is being stifled by a swelling pressure to appear contemporary.  Genuinely appreciating two drastically different expressions is fine, but self-consciously juxtaposing them beneath a banner labeled best is thinly disguised noncomittalism.  

    Where direct comparisons are available, the effect intensifies.  Both actor Benedict Cumberbatch and professional football player Victor Cruz appear in white tie and tails.  The former is wearing what appears to be a perfect rig—a difficult feat considering the challenging proportions and details of this most formal side of the masculine spectrum.  Cruz wears a dreadful interpretation of the same that barely contains his muscular form; it pulls and creases, reveals waistcoat where it shouldn’t, and rides above his ankles.  The problem isn’t fashion; its physics.  How could Vanity Fair possibly celebrate both?  On something as prescribed as white tie and tails, you simply must come down somewhere.  

    What puzzles me is Vanity Fair has positioned itself over time as a guardian of a certain timeless ideal.  An issue does not pass without a story—and accompanying spread of mouth-watering photographs—pulled from our collective notion of where and how and by whom elegance was best practiced.  All the usual suspects have splashed the pages: The Duke and Wallis bumming around France, the Kennedys afloat in a yacht, Grace Kelley darting about Monaco.  Even in this very Style issue, tucked well behind the haphazard declarations of who is best dressed, are a few images of Gianni Agnelli looking elegant in morning clothes.  And then there is Graydon Carter, Vanity Fair’s Editor, who himself is stylish in a decidedly classic Anglo-American way.  The sum is an editorial voice romantically preoccupied with a time when the day’s fashions and what is now deemed elegant aligned more perfectly, but one that struggles as the two develop a more complex relationship.  That voice truly falters when called upon to name a handful of best dressed men.  In an attempt to appear contemporary, a list like this is instead timid—a safe declaration of awareness, and a tentative fishing for reception.  

    Vanity Fair is not alone, of course.  I’m often floored by the brazen reference to some classically dressed man from a more elegant time by designers, writers or celebrities who wouldn’t be caught dead in the fuller, more masculine clothes of their supposed style icon.  Cary Grant, Gene Kelley, Frank Sinatra—these and more are name-dropped by men on this year’s best dressed list.  Those three in particular would burst into laughter if confronted by the skin-tight off-the-rack fashion suits worn by those who throw around their names.  What is the disconnect?  I think today’s fashionable man is simply taking an easier route—a narrow preference for the obvious and widely available or the self-consciously abstract rather than pursuing subtler expressions of contemporary elegance.  The latter is available but is less sensational and far more difficult to attain.  In the end, being best dressed is about the possession of fashionable clothing.  Living with elegance, having style—these things deal with the person inside all those clothes.

Some of the icons mentioned by members of Vanity Fair's best dressed men list.    Gene Kelly, Frank Sinatra, Cary Grant, Steve McQueen, Charles, Prince of Wales.  (All images are in the public domain).

The Question Remains

The standard menswear selfie.  Oh for shame!  

    A casual search around the internet reveals most genuine questions regarding menswear pertain to the more rigid aspects of the interest.  Questions of propriety are at the top, particularly as concerns weddings.  These are the can I wear x with y if the event is at four pm in a non-denominational church sort of queries, to which, more often than not, a good answer won’t help matters anyway.  One notch below these are questions of pattern scale or color—a sort of tie, shirt and jacket derby where the obscure is clobbered by the banal.  Occasionally one sees an interesting question; I recently ran into: “how does one negotiate boutonnieres and topcoats?”  This last one might just as well be the meanderings of an eccentric rather than a genuine concern.  (From a practical perspective, I imagine I would transfer the flower from lapel to lapel as needed).  

    The dearth of consistently good questions in these matters surely stems from the nature of the medium: the internet Q&A forum.  On the surface, these outlets encourage rushed answers over thoughtful discourse.  It’s unknowable, but I wonder what percentage of how-to-tie-a-bow-tie questions are frantically posted by groomsmen while late for the appointed church time.  I was fortunate enough to have an uncle, a retired Royal Navy man, in amongst my groomsmen both admonishing and assisting those few stumped by their bow-ties.  But what if no avuncular figure is waiting in the wings, prowling the pews?

    Those men who have the experience--that know well the rules and how to flout them--do participate in question-asking of a sort.  Digging just a little deeper online, one uncovers member-only forums dedicated to every echelon of dressing, from street-wear to the loftiest bespoke ambitions.  The most prolific of these is Styleforum, which is really an evolving and immense library of opinion regarding male dress.  I’m not a member, but have read quite a bit of the publicly available content.  It can be interesting, self-conscious, combative and revelatory all in a single sitting.  Some humble questions are asked, but mostly there is the nervous hedging of uncertainty with blunt, semi-hostile statements of generally agreed-upon principles.  The bravest members submit selfies for scrutiny.  This strikes me as a very modern way of asking a question.  

Image searches can answer those vague questions, like what's the correct facial expression for a gray tweed?  Courtesy of the Harris Tweed Authority Digital Archive

    Of course no one becomes better at anything without asking questions.  The right questions, I’ve found, are often silent, and phrased as internal statements or ideas, rather than anything punctuated by a question mark.  Contemplating a gray tweed jacket, I wanted to see something similar in action—actually, I just wanted to see recent precedent.  An image search is all that was necessary; within a few fractions of a second I had hundreds of examples of the good (at left) and the bad.  Very good answers can manifest over time from explicating images.  In a similarly broad approach, Adolph loos, architect, essayist, and generally opinionated fellow of the turn of the previous century began many of his short critical pieces with that old standby, the rhetorical question.  “Ah, to be well dressed, who does not desire to be well dressed?” (Men’s Fashion, 1898).  Better still: “How is Fashion Created?” ((Gentle)Men’s Hats, 1898).  But Loos does get rather specific with his answers: “an article of clothing is modern when it is possible to wear it in one’s native cultural environment at a certain occasion in the best society and it does not attract any unwarranted attention.” (Men’s Fashion, 1898).  Oh how I wish Loos could see how complicated modernity in dress has become.  I imagine he would have many more questions.  

    Ultimately, the very best resources are those experienced people with whom an hour’s face-to-face conversation is not unusual.  I have learned more in an afternoon spent with tailor Chris Despos than a week reading essays or the online debates of the anonymous (but well-attired).  My father is another good source, but his wisdom usually comes as a question of his own.  At a recent backyard gathering he asked me where he might, these days, find some decent polo shirts.  I pointed at my own, asking innocently enough if he wanted something similar.  “No” was his flat response.  “Shows too much chest.”  Point taken, pops.  

Where It All Comes Together

    The meeting of lapels on a single breasted jacket invites a handful of similes, too many, in fact, to choose a single one for describing this important conjunction.  What’s wrong with multiple similes anyway?  Who am I to quarrel with Langston Hughes and his drying raisins and syrupy sweets etc.?  And so I offer three rather less elegant examples with the hope of creating a figurative ideal of what, to my mind, seems the most important aspect of a tailored coat.  

    A good buttoning point is singular, like a correctly placed fulcrum.  Higher or lower ones can happen, but at the risk of ruining balance.  Today’s fashionable suits often button near the sternum which has the effect of creating large hips and a rather sunken chest.  The opposite, very low buttoning points, join the jacket right over the stomach, emphasizing even the slightest paunch.  Where is the correct buttoning point?  Depends on the person, but generally at the narrowest point between the hips and chest—the natural waist.  For me this occurs slightly above my navel.  

Plenty of body.

    Like mouth-filling wine, a good lapel has body.  It rolls rather than lays flat, ripples rather than creases and springs back when crushed.  In short, it has life.  The five inches of lapel above a buttoned coat is probably the most significant difference between readymade and handmade. Extraordinary effort goes into creating the effect, first cutting a shapely lapel which will enhance the dimension, then hand-stitching the cloth to the canvass creating an ineffable dynamism, and, finally, by pressing-in shape.  A good lapel has memory; a great one seems semi-conscious.

    The lower quarters should fall away as deciduous leaves—naturally and quietly.  Those that cut dramatically to the sides revealing too much trouser are performing, over-emphasizing a slim waist to the detriment of the whole.  Those that plummet straight down seem sad in their smock-like concealment.  There is of course no ideal here, and certain regional styles call for open or closed quarters.  I’m happy if a jacket looks like it could close (which, of course, it ever should), with slight overlap near the bottom button but decidedly rounded corners to the hem.  

Mr. Hughes sidesteps the matter by opting for a DB.  

    Mediocre similes aside, the placement, body and shapes found where a single breasted jacket joins are vital to the overall silhouette.  Adjustments here are also usually impossible; they must be cut into the garment from the start. Bespoke offers this flexibility, but the client must be specific (or quiet while the tailor gets things correct).  The greater difficulty is in ready-to-wear, where the overall fit might be good, but only one or two of the three above elements ideal.  In this instance, I might offer a few more Langston Hughes lines:

“I got the Weary Blues

And I can’t be satisfied.

      Got the Weary Blues

   And can’t be satisfied…”

Seeing the Light

    My favorite style dictums—rules, if such a thing as style could be governed—are those that seemingly, and sometimes blatantly, contradict with other principles of dress.  I’m not referring to matters of opinion; one peacock is always going to disagree with another over sleeve length.  And the current fixation with artful dishevelment—or sprezzatura—is self-defeating because, like irony, the instant the notion is acknowledged its foundation goes poof.  Instead I refer to the hiccup in logic—the disconnect that some fusty tradition creates.  Take the opera pump, the very pinnacle of men’s footwear formality.  We may all agree on the pump’s courtly lineage, and there’s no disputing the slender and elegant line wearing a pair creates.  But we can also agree that even the best pumps are merely loafers with stapled-on silk bows and glued soles—likely the least expensive pair of shoes in the well-dressed man’s wardrobe.  

    And if that keeps some men up at night, imagine what the light-colored tie does?  The one rather dependable rule for neckwear is this: a tie should be much darker than the shirt.  This perhaps was, or should have been, the very first thing taught to every tie-wearing man.  Happily, adhering to the rule is easy as most earnest attempts at pairing tie and shirt seem to naturally abide.  But exceptions—magnificent ones, I might add—exist.  

    The wedding tie is a specific thing, rather than a concept, as most current stylists would have it.  Consequently, an image search turns up very few true examples.  Instead what fills my monitor are anything but: madras, regimentals, knits.  Strictly speaking, a wedding tie is a densely woven silk in a black and white pattern that resolves to silver or gray from a few yards away.  The traditionally small patterns are shepherd’s check, houndstooth and glen plaid, all running on the bias.  I prefer less stringent examples where navy is substituted for black and the pattern is larger.  As a side effect though, a tie like this displays quite a bit of white silk, and the result is a rather light tie.  So what shirt?  Strangely, and for reasons that contradict the aforementioned logic of ties being darker than shirts, my preferred pairing for this type of festive tie is a blue broadcloth shirt—something that reads slightly darker than the tie.  The effect is irrefutably formal, elegant and, I suspect because of the abundance of white, happy.

    The other way of flouting convention is with a buff or palest-yellow tie.  These are largely connoisseur’s items; the majority of printed silk features motifs in lighter color combinations laid over darker grounds, likely for reasons of versatility and ease of pairing.  But the reverse—a lighter ground with a more saturated motif—can be very handsome.  Enter the dress stripe shirt—the fail-safe pairing for most foulards.  On the surface, the problem seems to be that a pale buff foulard will be too light for anything other than a white shirt, let alone a saturated striped shirt.  But the pairing works, somehow amplifying the dark stripes and setting the buff silk aglow.  

    These are happy discoveries, but come with a caution: the light tie can go quickly and dramatically wrong.  The wedding tie with lots of white in the pattern should really be reserved for festive occasions where at least some of the celebration is during the day.  And pale foulards are happy and casual, but almost never look right in the evening.  Perhaps that is the uniting principle: most occasions call for a tie that’s darker than the shirt, but a small collection of pale ties should occasionally see the light. 

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.

Perfect Squares

Neckerchief, reef-knotted and ready.  

   Between the necktie and the scarf exists another way of closing the collar that has nothing to do with bow ties.  I’m not being coy; this accessory has multiple and varying names, and a general disagreement of size and function.  Is a bandana smaller than a neckerchief?  Is the neck cloth a catch-all term for anything worn inside the shirt?  An ascot is certainly different; like a tie, it is shaped to achieve a particular effect.  But the unisex, unstructured, large square of cloth is what I find the most beguiling.

    I prefer the term neckerchief because it suggests utility rather than mere decoration—precisely the distinction I find important as concerns handkerchieves as opposed to pocket squares.  Of course if someone is crying, or a minor spill needs mopping, whipping off a neckerchief hardly seems the most sensible option.  So what are they for?  On casual occasions in cool weather, a silk or wool neckerchief provides a very effective barrier to drafts.   In summer, a lawn (fine cotton) or linen neckerchief is a glorified sweat band.  I can almost see some readers recoiling, but that’s life when it's hot.  Better a saturated square of cotton than rivulets of sweat collecting about the neck.  Plus they launder.

    This identification of utility should alleviate any timidity in wearing one, but it doesn’t.  Neckerchiefs are still rather conspicuous, even when worn neatly tucked beneath nothing more noticeable than a polo collar.  This is because the effect of wearing anything around the neck is always decorative.  The dullest woolen scarf, soberly arranged, is going to reveal something about its wearer, so what hope does lilac linen have for not attracting attention?  As a countermeasure, I limit my neckerchiefs to muted colors and quiet patterns, allowing the presence of something less familiar to win most of the style points.

    The knot(s) are important too.  True, there are more than one, but really only the reef knot matters.  I realize this sounds narrow, but more elaborate knots are either going to exaggerate the presence of your neckerchief, or invite unwelcome associations to boy scouts (who use a cute little ring to cinch theirs), or chefs (whose traditional four-in-hand produces an awkward, protruding nub).  To tie a reef, first transform the neckerchief from a square into a long strip (known as a pli de base) by folding two opposite corners of the square so they overlap, and folding the remainder in two inch intervals.  Give the result a few twists if you’d like.  Put it around your neck, the left end a little longer than the right end.  Thread the left end over and under the right end, and then the right over and under the left.  The points should protrude from the knot in opposite directions.  Fiddle and tuck the excess.  

    Of course women may do whatever they like with a neckerchief, a point made famously well by Grace Kelly who was once photographed using a silk square as a sling following an injured arm.  Carré de soie, the large, painstakingly printed foulards most notably produced by Hermès are at the top of this amorphous category of accessory.  I imagine either sex occasionally admires items from the other’s wardrobe; I have caught my own wife locked in some mixture of admiration and longing as she held a pair of my sensible brogues.  She has a few nice bags, but nothing tempts me more than her modest collection of carré de soie.  They are vibrant and dense—alive with spring and heft.  More than once, I’ve stood open-necked before them, wondering if I could get away with one of the more subtle prints slipped beneath a collar.

Violet giraffes on an olive ground.  One might say this is an advanced neckerchief.

Smart Support

A battered old badge transforms this polo into supporter gold.

    Even the most devoted classical dresser can be coaxed from his worsted and woolen shell when the urge to support a sports team strikes.  This is particularly true at the moment; the World Cup has the unique ability to unearth previously unknown allegiances in friends and colleagues, some hotly defended no matter how spurious the connection.  Pride of this sort can cloud judgment though; who hasn’t witnessed some less-than trim character squeezed into the newer style of painted-on jersey?  Oversized versions are the more common offender, but neither could ever be considered part of an elegant wardrobe, even if rarely worn.  So how can the classical dresser participate without compromising a commitment towards personal style?

    Firstly, why does wearing sports gear chafe the sensibilities of the more classically oriented anyway?  Historically, sports fields and stadia have been a rich source of style.  Polo coats, chukka boots, tennis sweaters, plimsolls, pique polos—all of these items began life as solutions for real athletes.  The social scene that arises around an event was also fecund ground for personal style; Esquire and Apparel Arts sent reporters to cover (American) football rivalries between various ivy league universities in hopes of spotting the newest fashions for their readers.

    The obvious answer is that sports gear has taken a decidedly inelegant turn in the past forty years or so, employing synthetics wherever possible, plastering every available inch with sponsorship branding, and doing away with any element deemed superfluous.  Simultaneously a dramatic change in proportion has occurred; shorts have become longer and baggier, jersey’s often the same.  It wasn’t that long ago that Mike Tyson entered the ring in unadorned black mid-thigh shorts.  He looked menacing and explosive as he surveyed the crowd, most of whom wore tuxedoes for the occasion.  Are we surprised that the advent of bill-board shorts goes hand-in-hand with ring-side seats populated by unshaven, sunglass-wearing celebrities?  

    I almost teared-up when I discovered England’s national kit had forsaken the crisp little collar that made wearing replicas such a pleasure in the past.  France fans are fortunate; their team’s jerseys are particularly smart in navy with white collars.  But, those, too, seem doomed as collarless compression tops become the default style.  I recommend seeking out older jerseys; they may still be synthetic, but even versions as recent as ten years old typically have retained a collar, a tailored silhouette and a less egregious clash of branding.  This is a bottomless well though; secondary markets exist for collectors of vintage and rare jerseys and, like any coveted and limited product, prices can quickly become exorbitant for the most desirable specimens.

A lapel pin never looked so good. 

    If you really cannot bare a synthetic jersey, a subtle, low drama effect can be achieved with a badge or pin.  The truly dedicated might have an official badge sewn on to a well fitting polo; the effect is surprisingly convincing, and no more noticeable than a polo with any other chest-mounted emblem.  I wouldn’t sew a badge on a blazer, but I have worn a pin through the button hole to great effect.  In fact, I attended a garden party during the last World Cup wearing ready-to-wear chinos, the aforementioned badged polo and a lightweight blazer with a small pin on the lapel.  The combination went largely unnoticed until a fellow England supporter spotted me, revealing his own jersey beneath his blazer.  He wanted to know where I found my pin.  

    Finally, scarves, which would be a perfect fan accessory if they weren’t so season specific.  A brightly colored and loudly printed scarf can be worn without fear of looking like a paid mascot.  It can be waived around, held up for the cameraman, or, if your team wins in hostile territory, quickly stuffed into an interior pocket during an escape.  So useful is the supporter scarf, I’m proposing its summer alternative: the supporter cotton neckerchief, to be worn in a square knot  beneath a collared jersey.

Reasonably Seasonal

This Cote de Brouilly could go either way--chilled or cellar temperature. 

    Perhaps four years ago at a lively bistro on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, I sat for lunch with my wife on a particularly hot day.  She was rather pregnant at the time, and perhaps because of this, we were given a table very quickly, despite what appeared to be an impatient lunchtime crush of regulars.  The tables were tightly arranged in the small dining room and so eavesdropping was unavoidable.  Next to us sat two men; while I hesitate to say they were rude, their manner was certainly brusque, and more so than might be excused by local custom.  The waiter, a Frenchman, was patient while one of them studied the wine list, finally jabbing an index finger at a name.  The exchange was brief but perfect:

“Is that the red wine you are supposed to drink cold?” 

“That Beaujolais would be fine chilled.”  

    I was impressed how expertly this professional dealt with what, for lesser waiters, might have been an opportunity for haughtiness.  His response was delivered with a gracious smile, but the message was clear: you may drink that particular Beaujolais chilled because the day is hot and the spirit in here conducive.  As a devoted Beaujolais drinker, I was satisfied.  This young, uncomplicated French wine can, indeed, be chilled.  Some combination of varietal (Gamay) and fermentation method (carbonic maceration) produces light bodied, fruit-forward and yeasty wines without the tannic astringency that would become metallic and flat once cold.  The problem is that the fashion for chilled Beaujolais tends to creep outside of those appropriate moments.  Ordinary Beaujolais doesn’t need a chill to be good, and the Crus (small, pricier producers) can demonstrate complexity and nuance that would be a shame to flatten out with chill.

    When it works, though, few wine experiences seem as clever.  So ingrained is it that red wine should be served at room temperature, that any sign of chill seems an error.  Perhaps this is why red wine is often served too warm; the fear of faux pas creates an overcorrection.  Counterintuitively, Beaujolais almost becomes more serious when chilled.  The signature fruity nose develops juicier and darker notes and a bracing structure can emerge where before there was little.  Well-chilled Beaujolais is also dangerously drinkable, and not unlike rosé, is a practice best reserved for those warm weather daytime events where a few drinks seem less an indulgence than a right.  The waiter was spot-on; chilled Beaujolais is more about atmosphere than correctness—the enhancement of time and place through an unusual practice.  

    A surprisingly similar sensation can be had by going sockless.  A collection of quality, over-the-calf hose can be the difference between dressing and dressing well.  Having multiples of sober colors is an efficiency, and a complement of less serious patterns is the mark of a more sophisticated dresser.  But even the most comprehensive collection can’t compete with the thrill of going without on those warm and casual occasions when even the sheerest, coolest wearing versions stifle.  I adore my own collection of lisle, merino, silk and cashmere, but my favorite day on the sock-wearing calendar is the one when the breeze finds its way between loafer and trouser cuff.  

    But socklessness, like chilled red wine, can creep too.  Any occasion more serious than a non-business lunch or casual outdoor event really requires socks.  I don’t usually look out for ankles, but a bare one at a wedding or business function is hard to ignore.  It’s funny to think of a man’s ankles as being distracting considering our collective tolerance of exposed flesh these days, but somehow that little patch of skin between foot and calf is weighted differently than midriff and décolletage.  Specifically, it signifies leisure.  This is why a tie requires socks; on younger men forgoing the latter looks affected, on older men, like a jarring omission.

    The only real danger in chilled Beaujolais or socklessness is deploying either too regularly.   This is often the case with seasonal indulgences; they only delight when experienced in contrast to the expected.  Of course this cuts the other way too; the instant the practice feels routine, a return to more conventional habits is welcome.  We are blessedly early in the season though, so at least once a week I will be the guy drinking cold Beaujolais, ankles very much in the open.

The Rarest Cloth

Little can challenge the perfection of worn-in white linen.

    Whether my collection of handkerchieves is considered vintage I don’t know.  They are old, and rather international, having mostly come to me through my parents before they moved to the US.  I like to think of them comfortably occupying their shelf like a privy council of foreign and wise elders.  Each serves a role, from the plain and modest to the colorful and moody, but the collective purpose is balance.

    They are adamantly not pocket squares though.  That loathsome term suggests delicacy and useless adornment.  What could be more vain than some verboten and fragile little square of cloth worn arranged on the chest?  The purely decorative role is already occupied by the tie; a handkerchief is utilitarian, which is why it is pushed into an easily accessible outside breast pocket.  But whatever panache a displayed handkerchief can achieve will only materialize for the wearer who is committed to its regular sacrifice to spills, sneezes, tears, and comfort.  That willingness to serve is the difference between artifice and chivalry.  

Totally tonal.

    And so the most prominent members of my collection are plain white handkerchieves. They have no color to bleed, nor patterns to preserve.  They have dabbed at every type of tear and are as gentle as mink to a raw nose.  But there is more than just comfort to these old handkerchieves.   That same gauzy character enables the most attractive puff from the breast pocket.  The less described the technique, the better, but the general movement starts with a gentle pinch of the center, a subtle corralling by the other hand and an inexact folding over on to itself before being pushed into the pocket.  Do not look at the results in the mirror—just leave.  This takes almost as much discipline as yanking it into service does.  

    Tonal, patterned handkerchieves work very well too.   An honorable place in my collection belongs to a print by Swiss artist and friend, Claudia Meyer.  This handkerchief is an example of her very early work given to my father when I was a boy.  Faded taupe, charcoal and cream are layered in angular exuberance and deliberate artiness.  The result is the most earnest pastiche of the middle 1980s imaginable.  I once considered framing it, as I’m not entirely sure it is a handkerchief in the first place, but abandoned the idea for fear of having nothing unusual to put in my pocket for gallery and museum events.  

A grouping of Hanae Mori prints: strangely versatile.

    Some more complex little wisp of color and form appearing from the breast pocket can also be effective.  My favorite colored handkerchieves are an old series of Hanae Mori prints in very fine linen.  These are not the pea-cocking color bombs that have become the mark of stylists and glossy magazine editors.   The use of color is instead expertly tempered with sparse arrangement, restrained borders and white space.  Despite the apparent decorative aspect, these are my most versatile handkerchieves.  Depending on how they are put in the pocket the effect can be restrained or dominant and yet they remain fairly casual.  I reach for one of these too often.

    Here is a test: go to your own collection and choose the newest, finest one and blow your nose.  If you can’t bring yourself to use it for its primary purpose, it will never reward you with any of its corollary style.  Repeatedly laundering a new handkerchief won’t produce the same effect; a handkerchief achieves perfection only by use.  I have a few newish ones myself, gifts mostly.  The patterns and make of these are beautiful; I am excited to put one in my breast pocket in two decades or so.

Pant-a-Porter

Daddy long-legs: chinos with unfinished hems.  

   Ready-to-wear trousers are rarely ready to wear.  Some tweaking is almost always necessary, if not in the waist or seat then certainly with the hem, which, on better trousers, is left unfinished and long enough for Herman Munster.  A decent alterations shop should be able to turn around a few pairs within a week, which is considerably faster than the two to four months typical of fully bespoke or made-to-measure (customized to a standard pattern).  But if having trousers made is an option, why fool around with ready-to-wear in the first place?  Cost, of course—a consideration that becomes acute when dealing with washable cotton trousers intended for warm-weather wear.  

    Like polo shirts, the instant you start laundering your trousers the dimensions will change.  If you have gone to the considerable effort and expense of having trousers made in a washable cloth you might be unhappy to learn that, no matter the precautions taken, sometime around wash number four the waistband will tighten or a seam will pucker, effectively undoing the precision and labor of your tailor.  This inevitability raises an important philosophical question: what is a tailored garment with uncertain dimensions?   Rather than prod the existential foundation of trousers, I decided to limit the bespoke option to those made of wool and linen.  Put another way, washable, warm-weather trousers should be ready-to-wear.

    Since that happy resolution, I have learned that there is style to be reaped in the somewhat imperfect shapes of this type of trouser.  Whereas bespoke trousers hang in perfectly tapering lines, breaking slightly over the shoe, and moving fluidly with the wearer, the ready-to-wear trouser made of washable cotton might cling or bow, bunch or sag, crease, rumple or wilt.  With use and washing they will certainly fade; with love they will fray.  This character is particularly welcome when a finely tailored jacket is introduced.  Similar to the effect of a sculpted bust emerging from a roughly hewn plinth, the latter serves as a foil to the former, accentuating the beauty that can be coaxed from cloth while preserving the honesty of the medium.  

A beloved pair of chinos drip-dries following a flash downpour.  Notice how they have retained the wearer's shape.

    Not unlike the exciting nomenclature of loafers, casual cotton trousers have their own secret language: chinos, drills, khakis, ducks.  Parsing the precise definitions of each can be exciting for the enthusiast, but the common theme is inexpensive cotton cloth, neutral coloring and lineages that invariably lead to the military.  They have retained the rugged allure of campaign and adventure and this is perhaps why the style endures.  Of course unhappy things result when shoehorned into a business context.  The ubiquitous khaki was never intended as business-wear; that it has become one of the unofficial symbols of corporate dullness is its own retribution.  Wear them to a vineyard, a sports event, even a garden party—anything but a conference room.

    There is one rather important decision to be made at the outset, however.  Sometime following World War II when this style of trouser gained civilian acceptance a sort of division formed between British and American versions.  The former retained some of its Military stiffness and slightly trimmer silhouette.  By contrast, the American version became somewhat fuller, straighter and altogether more casual.  I wouldn’t say the differences are dramatic—it's really an experiential distinction.  This is best demonstrated by comparing the offerings of Bill’s Khakis with those found at Cordings.  The former is a relative newcomer offering three fits, the fullest of which is patterned from a wartime original.  The latter is a rickety shop in London’s Piccadilly that, among heaps of English country clothing, sells chinos in an inimitable cut with the most obnoxious button fly ever conceived.  Both are excellent.

    Finally, I’d like to rally women to the cause of this type of trouser.  Father’s Day promotions tend to be saccharine suggestions of novelty cufflinks and sticky colognes.  These things are better ignored in favor of items that sacrifice sentimentality for practicality and style.    Buy the men in your lives some ready-to-wear cotton trousers—they have both by the armful.

Held in Suspense

Versatile reptile.  

    More than any other element of the masculine wardrobe, trouser fashion is really a function of physics.  Whereas lapel widths might be endlessly variable according to the whims of the influential, the design of trousers takes place within rather narrow boundaries.  They must either be suspended by some means or be low and snug enough to resist gravity on their own.  Fashion vacillates between silhouettes every twenty years or so, but the general architecture of the garment remains a choice between the two.

    While braces and side straps are unquestionably my preference on suits, dinner clothes and most odd trousers, I haven’t banished the belt altogether.  When they fit, jeans should resist gravity on their own, but they look strange without a belt.  Denim, with its pronounced twill and variegated coloring, seems to cry out for something rich put through its loops.  I like substantial bridle leather in mottled tan or mid-brown, and brass for the buckle because steel is pedestrian and sterling far too costly for an accessory designed for less formal use.

    If luxury is the goal, though, it’s hard to do better than alligator or crocodile.  Unless expertly worn, shoes made from exotic skins can easily seem too flash.  A strip of the stuff around the waist, though, provides an appealing texture and welcome departure from the expected matching calf of the wearer's shoes.  I have had a dark brown alligator belt for almost twenty years that still sees regular use.  Some combination of cracked finish, faded coloring, obvious repairs and perceived luxury makes it one of the more versatile objects in my wardrobe.  

A webbing belt in a particularly sedate color. Try one in red, bottle-green or navy.  

    Far cheaper ways of achieving similar pleasing effects can be had with belts made from webbing, ribbon, or crochet.  This is perhaps the best way to introduce a cheeky aspect to non-suit-wearing occasions; a flash of brightly colored grosgrain beneath an open blazer is a well-understood play by style icons past and present.  The most famous example is perhaps the silk ties Fred Astaire threaded through his high-waisted trousers.  Better still, there is a picture somewhere of the Duke of Windsor wearing a pale rope around his tidy waist.  One might be forgiven for wondering if this was a wistful reference to his abandonment of duty—a sort of sardonic symbol of shirked responsibilities. I’m waiting for some brazen young designer to make one of braided coaxial cable in a similar nod to abdication from an expected role.  

    If there is a common theme here it is belts should honor their military and sporting heritage.  “Dress belts,” those slim straps made of anonymous black calf and adorned with sleek buckles, aren’t nearly as useful as belts made from textured, whimsical or somewhat rustic ingredients.  Formal versions of innately informal objects often have this problem.  Belts signify informality, and that’s fine.  Whether braces, side straps or belts, just make sure whatever is doing the lifting is capable; while fashionably slim pants won’t result in arrest, those worn around the ankles very likely will.

Bridle leather in all its thick, mottled glory.