Sartorial Stereotypes: Summer Jackets

The Seersucker

The Seersucker man is very proud of his 7 year old daughter. She has only just begun to play the piano, and yet he has already filled his iPhone with nearly 100 videos of her scratching out Twinkle Twinkle Little Star – with varying degrees of accuracy.

A Virginia-born company lawyer with a penchant for American history, fine English shoes and Cuban cigars, he is the archetype of a polite, handsomely educated family man with a pleasant, personable mildness that mixes sublimely with the smoke from his Partagas No.4.

His wife is an immaculately attired, red-lipsticked, Pinterest-posting baker, who has kitted her cinnamon scented home outside of Richmond in a patriotically loyal New England style, all gingham informality and lace-edge pillow cases. They often attend summer Fourth of July parties with some of their smarter, bow-tied neighbours, with her attired in a floral Lily Pulitzer, and her husband in a pair of cream drill trousers, chestnut semi-brogue shoes and his Brooks Brothers Seersucker jacket.

The Pink Linen

The Pink Linen man is one of those unicorns of adulthood; a natural blonde.

Half Swedish and half German, he is a striking Viking; taller than an NBA draft with a shock of impossibly and irritatingly thick golden hair, the only sign of his age being microscopic wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. He passes his time working for an investment company in the Swedish capital and travelling to major European cities: “These are the real cities” he says with a slight American drawl “Stockholm is so small.”

Shamelessly stylish, he is drawn to extravagant Italian tailoring, which he wears with Teutonic precision and Swedish aesthetic purity. He wears few suits in summer, favouring the Pitti predilection for odd jackets and trousers. His trousers – break-less of course – are exquisitely shaped around the contours of his legs and his jackets, painstakingly sculpted around the waist, he owns in a variety of wool flannels and silk-linens.

One of his summer specials is a rose pink linen Rubinacci jacket, which he wears with slim white trousers and sockless tassel loafers in the light Swedish summers on his family’s island clapboard home in the archipelago or at sunset down on one of the bar barges next to Strandvägen, utterly unaffected by the beauty surrounding him.

The Brass-Buttoned Blazer

The Brass-Buttoned Blazer man is a remnant of the era of the Rotary Club, chequebooks and indoor smoking. A moderately successful insurance salesman in the City, he cuts a figure reminiscent of Lawrence Jamieson from Dirty Rotten Scoundrels – all smarm, Brylcreem and sovereign rings.

Married three times – twice to the same woman – and now widowed, he now lives a genteel existence between a Surrey cottage and a dank bedroom at his London club, where he attempts to lure leathery ex-showgirls, unwanted by their husbands.

He runs a predictable, though undeniably charming, round of old London haunts: Langan’s Brasserie, the Ritz Bar and Ronnie Scott’s. His permed, over-perfurmed and cheaply botoxed dates are quick to point out “…the 1960s ended 50 years ago, my darling!”

With grey flannel trousers, a club stripe tie and rakish brown and white spectator shoes he wears a hopsack blue blazer with his club’s crest buttons – now rough around the edges and stained on the sleeve: a treasured relic made by Dege & Skinner during his glory days.

The Cream DB

The Cream DB man has long, cavalier hair and thick, stumpy fingers that look like chorizo. The mixed odour of tobacco and eau de cologne is ever present and his gravelly, broken voice betrays years of high living. He runs his somewhat indelicate fingers over an elegant, 16th century sculpture that one of his clients, a squinting telecoms tycoon, is considering buying.

His art and antiques gallery, just around the corner from the Piazza della Signoria in Florence, is more of a social lounge than a store. Though he lives regally in a bright apartment overlooking the Arno, he has had to re-mortgage his Tuscan farmhouse near Volterra; slow trade is hammering his preferred lifestyle. He welcomes old friends into his store in the manner of a skilled maitre’d welcoming VIPs; lightly flirting with the women and backslapping the men.

He takes them through his new pieces, each one is ‘meraviglioso’, each one is ‘importante.’ At 12pm, he closes the store for a long lunch, whilst regaling his group with a story of a Greek reliquary he secured in Istanbul, wearing a cream double-breasted blazer from Al Bazar, slim D&G denim and Burgundy monkstraps.

The Dinner Suit – Henry Poole & London Craft Week, 5 May 2016

Black Tie.

Are there any two more powerful words you can place on an invitation?

The stipulation is so complete, so final and so gently authoritative. It hits like a steel fist in a velvet glove: there will be no relenting, there is no relaxation – this is a rule.

I have always thought of Black Tie as being the closest thing civilian citizens get to a military parade. Though thought of as “fancy” or “dandy” clothing, Black Tie (or tuxedos/evening dress) is actually the simplest and least-showy form of male clothing in the pantheon of classic menswear.

Yes, it is formal. But formal doesn’t necessarily mean decorativeness or extravagance. Day suits such as loud Glen Checks are far more distracting and exuberant in their elegance; silk ties with paisley motifs in colours like marmalade and plum, far richer and gaudy.

It is the discreet elegance of Black Tie that makes it the smartest form of dress, and it is the uniformity of its expectation that makes it harder to distinguish oneself.

It is easier to make a splash of difference in a day suit. For example, odd waistcoats can add an element of intrigue to a dull, dark suit; bright pocket squares can be deployed as foils to plain neckties – and brightly coloured shirts can distract from otherwise conservative ensembles.

Black Tie is monochromatic and sartorially severe. When a man tries to play around with it too much, it comes off as foppish. When he looks to add a hint of colour he must be wary. Black Tie is very simple – but it’s remarkably easy to get it wrong.

And so, with the ‘parade’ of Black Tie, one must impress with the details. Patent or very well polished black shoes – ideally opera pumps or Oxfords – should shine on your feet. The bow tie (always black) should be subtly textured (moiré silk is particularly fine) and the quality and condition of your evening shirt, with a greater amount of exposure in the chest, needs to be high. Even socks need special thought; black silk should be the first choice, but even if selecting cotton a man needs to pay special attention to the condition and thickness of his hosiery.

However, the most important element of Black Tie is the most obvious; the dinner suit itself.

The perfect dinner suit is an investment. It doesn’t have the regularity of use of a grey chalkstripe or a navy worsted, but to have a bespoke version in your arsenal offers a sublime peace of mind. It will last a lifetime – and beyond, if taken care of. I have a vintage white tie tailcoat, made on Savile Row in the 1920s, that is in excellent condition; in fit, it’s not perfect as it wasn’t made for me, but the exquisite craftsmanship and condition of the garment shows how it is worth the initial outlay.

There is a saying that if God were to wear any clothes, he would be dressed by Henry Poole. Therefore, it is probable that if God were to attend a celestial formal soiree, he would do so in Black Tie from Henry Poole.

On a street that is simply bursting with archives and patterns of famous and celebrated clients, Henry Poole is probably the most storied of the Savile Row tailors. Virtually all of the 19th and 20th century tailors can boast celebrities, authors, aristocrats, sportsmen, musicians and artists in their ledgers but Poole takes it up a level; it has the silver screen stars, but its most illustrious clients are its royal ones.

The Prince of Wales, later Edward VII, is credited with ‘inventing’ the dinner suit’s short jacket, but it was Henry Poole who made it – and it was Poole’s creations that were later popularized amongst American patrons who frequented New York’s Tuxedo Club.

What this means is that Poole has the ultimate bragging rights over the dinner suit – and that when anyone from Poole speaks to you about Black Tie, it’s probably sensible to listen.

Henry Poole and London Craft Week are inviting those who possess this sense, and a mere £15+VAT, to their grand rooms on Savile Row to see how one of their dinner suits, the ‘godliest’ of all, are made.

At 11.00am and 3.00pm on Thursday 5th May, Poole are offering a rare chance to see demonstrations of different processes from tailors Keith Levett and Tom Pendry alongside Henry Poole’s archives and pattern books – almost worth the entrance alone.

Places are limited, and tickets are available here now.

Sartorial Love/Hate: Casentino Coats

“Jesus. His coat has seen better days” a colleague murmured as we were flicking through some of the best captures of the biannual peacock-fest that is PittiUomo. It was somewhat inevitable coming from someone who hadn’t yet managed to stretch their sartorial imagination beyond multi-deal Jermyn Street shirts, Barbour paddock jackets and suits from Marks & Spencer.

Their idea of texture is, understandably, confined to silk twills, smooth Super 100s wools and Oxford-cloth cotton. Whilst harsh to call it pedestrian, it is rather wedded to the conventional. And so the distinctive Casentino fabric, with its curious similarity to pilled wool – which afflicts jumpers, cardigans and other woollen wearas a result of friction – is undoubtedly strange. After all, why would you want a coat that looks like it has been someone’s favourite for one decade too many.

“Some new-fangled trendy thing” the colleague surmised, folding his arms and shaking his head.

Not a bit of it. Casentino is an ancient fabric. Long renowned for being strong and warm, it has been used in making blankets for animals and for clothing cold Franciscan friars since the Middle Ages. It then moved from mere practicality to aesthetic heights when it became desirable for its distinctive ‘curls’ in the 19th century, counting amongst its famous wearers the composers Giuseppe Verdi and Giacomo Puccini.

One of the more well-known examples of the Casentino coat is Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly in Breakfast At Tiffany’s wearing a double-breasted Hubert de Givenchyorange version (orange being the signature colour of Casentino). It is this mid-century aesthetic that has endured; with sparkling heels, gleaming sunglasses and a fur hat in supporting roles, lifting the Casentino to the giddy heights of chic Hollywood glamour.

More recently, it has been seen on the many dandies prowling around PittiUomo every January; an appropriate environment given the material’s connection with Florence and Tuscany. After all, Casentino is named after a valley area to the east of that great Renaissance city.

And, like most PittiUomo trends, the skilful execution of such fashion can persuade admirers to action.

“I really want a Casentino coat!” men have been gushing online, with the unlikely gusto normally associated with boyhood dreams like driving a Ferrari or sleeping with a supermodel.

However, others struggle to see any appeal in the fabric, reacting to its distinctive texture in much the same way that the Prince of Wales responds to modernist architecture: why would something be made intentionally ugly and then considered uniquely beautiful? “It looks like my granny’s bath mat!” another colleague exclaimed “There’s no way anyone can pull this off, unless they’re a model.”

I sit on the friendly side of the fence. Yes, it’s another Pitti-led fad and a Casentino coat is hardly the first entry in a capsule collection. However, worn in the right way and the right context, it moves the coat to the forefront of the ensemble, without extravagant patterns or embellishments.

In my view, the key elements are colour and texture contrast – with a dash of playfulness.

Colour

Typically, overcoats worn are in navy, dark grey and black. These overcoats are serious and sensible; funeral fodder. Casentino coats are all about the texture, which is playful and curious, and there is no better way of showing off the distinctive curls than wearing brighter colours; the shadowing created by the curls shows up better in colours with greater contrast ranges. You can go for the distinctive Hermes orange or the similarly classic bright green, but they also look good in royal blue, burgundy, rust and purple. Mustard yellow is an interesting idea, and even a very light grey could work. The key is not to think too sensibly or practically; light grey, for example, is a flexible and not outrageous colour, but is arguably very impractical for outerwear, which means it can work with Casentino.

Texture contrast

As a texture showpiece, Casentino needs an appropriate set. Contrasting textures are required to offset its appearance, so layer over smoother textures such as fine worsted and flannel. It’s quite a casual coat, so is also perfect for combining with weekend cashmere rollnecks. It seems to work best with patterns underneath, emphasising its playful edge.

Modern Bertie

“Pip pip” he would say as he skipped out of his Mayfair club ‘Drones’, tipping his fur felt trilby (probably from Bates) at his bemused chums.

He would advance into the London sunshine wearing a daring chalkstripe flannel suit, undoubtedly from a Savile Row tailor, a foulard silk necktie bought in the Burlington Arcade would adorn a fashionable bar-collar, and the merest hint of a cream silk puff would poke from his chest pocket.

Turned-up trousers would flop onto dark brown, hand-made English Oxfords. And, after a charming word and an extravagant tip to a passing flower girl, a fresh rose or carnation would adorn his lapel.

The year is 1924. Bertram (Bertie) Wilberforce Wooster is in his mid-twenties. A privileged, pleasure-seeking clubman.

This is the Bertie that everyone knows. From today’s vantage point he seems, aside from the charmingly aimless existence and complete avoidance of seriousness, to be the picture of elegance, tradition and maturity. This is the way aged peers dress in the House of Lords. This is the inter-war aesthetic so beloved by The Chap magazine. This is the commonly-called ‘classic menswear.’

And yet, Bertie was really at the height of fashion.

In fact, some of the gentlemen who were still wearing black and grey Victorian and Edwardian frock coats, striped trousers and top hats would have thought him something of a rebel. Some of the more traditional members of London’s clubland, those from White’s or Brook’s, might even have considered him inappropriately attired – the equivalent of wearing a black necktie to a black tie event.

However, it is clear that it is the influence of his invaluable valet Jeeves that prevents Bertie from ever being considered ‘badly’ dressed. Ensuring Bertie is correctly attired is a daily task; clothes must be kept clean, pressed and mended at all times. Also, Jeeves often has to battle with his employer over items that only Bertie considers to be of value; white mess jackets, alpine trilby hats and extravagant plus-six golfing trousers.

But this is the harmless, cloud-cushioned world of Wodehouse, and so clothing is bound to be amongst the more serious matters.

The question is, if Bertie were around today, how would he dress?

One valid argument would point to his youth and state that Bertie’s conformity is only ever to his class and his age group. Therefore, the attire of the male Sloane Ranger is likely to be the major influence on his wardrobe. It’s a hideous thought, but it’s perfectly possible that were a 24 year old Bertie around today he would wear Sebago deck shoes with Abercrombie & Fitch chinos, an Oxford cloth Ralph Lauren shirt and a Moncler gilet.

However, some might say it would be unlikely that Jeeves – who is far more of a snob and a conformist than Bertie – would stand for such disregard of standards of elegance. We mustn’t forget it is Jeeves who maintains Bertie’s sartorial principles and removes unnecessary experimentation from his employer’s reach.

Therefore, some would suggest that Bertie may not dress that differently to the way in which he dresses in the books’ original setting. Jeeves, scrolling through the pages of Styleforum and The Rake, may see that the menswear of the 1920s-30s has, by and large, remained the ideal and is the clothing of taste for the gentleman about London. And, rather than let Bertie be influenced by the recklessness of current fashion or corrupted by his friends’ poor taste, he may cocoon him in an aesthetic closer to that of a city gent; pinstripes, waistcoats and double-breasted suits.

My own thoughts are that Bertie’s social conformity would play a great role. Yes, Jeeves would prevent him from becoming a hoody-wearing Mockney Old Etonian whose style icons are Stanford-educated tech billionaires, but I think that he would stop short of being preserved in a former era, no matter how evergreen the aesthetic. Modernity was evidently fascinating to Bertie. He lived in a fashionable area, in a fashionably decorated – and very modern – flat.

My own views are that he would wear a blend of English and European styles that would ape the prevailing aesthetic in both high-fashion and avant-garde tailoring. He would never embarrass himself in dress – he is too high-born for that – so would always be a subtle version of a trend. He might shop in Massimo Dutti, Paul Smith and Berluti.

He would, unfortunately, probably lose his taste for neckties, instead wearing elegant open shirts with soft-shouldered cord jackets, woven blazers and soft flannel and moleskin trousers. Both he and Jeeves would seek to mark him out as a man of leisure, albeit a smart one, by avoiding suits. His daily attire would appear as something an elegant hedge-fund manager might wear on the weekend. Plain and possibly tasseled brown and black loafers would be on his feet. He might wear cashmere from Loro Piana at home. His pocket watch would be replaced by a Panerai.

Home for modern Bertie is unlikely to be Berkeley Square. He is most likely to settle in Chelsea, where his old school and university friends might be. Although, with many of them not as wealthy as he, Battersea might be more realistic. A modern pied a terre overlooking the river, packed with technology and expensive, modern furniture.

Bertie’s club ‘Drones’ would not be of the Pall Mall type. It would likely be similar to the Dover Street Arts Club, although less commercial. The ranks of tweedy, English public school members in their 20s and 30s will have been reduced greatly, replaced by scions of Russian oligarchs and Saudi princes wearing Tom Ford.

However, there is one very likely consistency: Bertie’s avoidance of matrimony would remain true. And even the modern Drones would be unlikely to admit female members.

Tailoring Fads I’ll Be Avoiding

“You can only be brought up with taste” a professional acquaintance of mine opined “despite what people think, you can’t buy it and you can’t learn it quickly. It takes so long.”

His opinion is worth respecting. He is mature of year and very well thought of in luxury circles.

“You see so many people copying something, but they always make a mistake, or they focus on the wrong thing.”

It was these words that stayed with me when thinking about how easy, to some degree, copying something is.

Arguments can be had till the cows come home about the differing quality of tailors, whether off-the-rack is better than cheap made-to-measure and which bespoke tailor produces the finest Milanese buttonholes.

The reality is, for the vast majority of those who aren’t Tumblr-addicted forumites that the co-creative process in menswear has experienced a renaissance. Not since before the turn of the 20th century have we seen such a capability to add our own touches, accents and identity to the pieces we buy.

Personalisation is now all the rage.

Of course, for some, personalisation is, and always has been, the name of the game. Tailors have long traded on it; something made for you, with your preferred cut, in your preferred cloth, with your preferred details. It has always been the great ego-rub, the only solution for a man who has conquered everything else. Chiefs, Kings and Sultans would only ever have something made to their specifications. Tailors are there to do their bidding.

However, personalisation is, ultimately, rather dangerous.

Which Chief, King or Sultan could be accused of being a ‘perfect ruler’?

For personalisation to be ‘perfect’ it assumes perfection in those making the command. Of course, a fawning tailoring brand, desperate for public exposure, would say that the pink stitching on your lapel is daring, inventive and brilliant on social media; secretly they think it’s hideous, and they kind of resent you associating their brand with your appalling taste.

“You can have thinner lapels” says the tailor to the client with square-toed shoes and an earring, but under his breath he is fuming that his far superior sense of design and taste is being ignored. An angry tailor is not a happy sight. And you’d wish to goodness they’d just send the non-conforming clients away with a flea in their ear, but they can only do this when they can do without the business. Otherwise the flattery must continue.

In order to provide clarity on my own views of ‘taste’, I have listed out some fads of personalisation that I have seen but will be avoiding.

Coloured buttonhole stitching

One of the laziest customization options from e-tailors is that of coloured buttonhole stitching.

It’s ‘personalisation’ for the sake of it. It doesn’t work and it looks cheap and, arguably, like the tailor ran out of thread of the correct tone.

How is having yellow buttonhole stitching on a charcoal suit ‘showing your identity and personality’?

Skinny lapels

One of the fads that came about through fashion’s adoption of 1960s tailoring (think Hedi Slimane at Dior Homme) is the demand for skinny lapels.

This rarely works. You usually have to be skinny and tall. It’s somewhat androgynous, and therefore won’t work with classic menswear, which is structured and masculine.

Double buttonhole on the lapel

This is one of those ‘just to be different’ BS ‘personalisations’ that has no heritage and no purpose. Like coloured buttonhole stitching, it’s distracting and looks like a blind tailor made a mistake.

Piping on the lining

This has long been controversial. The lining of a suit has been sold to those new to tailoring as the one place in which their taste and personality can be really expressed.

The problem is that vast multitudes seem to have absolutely no taste and a personality that suggests an aging portrait in the attic.

Most tailors that offered you the chance to choose your lining colour and piping to match – “Allowing you amazing colour combinations!” – have now retreated and only offer a select number of linings, due to the repeated horrors of aligning vomit yellow with toilet cleaner pink.