Links: Gabardine, Polo Coat, Drakes…

• Why we don’t see more gabardine suits. (maxminimus.blogspot.com)

• The polo coat. (gentlemansgazette.com)

• Drake’s Spring/Summer ’12 teaser. (drakes-london.tumblr.com)

• Pay attention to your quarters. (putthison.com)

• The everyday kit. (thesimplyrefined.com)

• Why you are not hors categorie and will probably never be. (postmoderngentleman.com)

• History of the belted-back trouser. (ivy-style.com)

Links: Dressy Criminals, Bespoke Suit, Edward Green for RL…

• Sharp looking criminals. (dandymancan.blogspot.com)

• Bespoke with Chris Despos, Pt. 1. (thesimplyrefined.com)

• Edward Green for RL’s Purple Label. (uptowndandy.blogspot.com)

• 3 ways to wear a suede bomber jacket. (thestyleblogger.com)

• Hidden gem: bespoke Milanese shoemaker Antonio Pio Mele. (gentlemansgazette.com)

• Louis Vuitton trunks porn. (maxminimus.blogspot.com)

• Something for the rich dandies: shoes made from 220 years old Russian leather. (asuitablewardrobe.dynend.com)

• Kilgour recreates Fred Astaire’s tails. (permanentstyle.co.uk)

• London Corthay visit. (the-shoe-snob.blogspot.com)

• The Sartorialist “Lunch for 25” preview (hypebeast.com)

Links: Florence, Ovadia & Sons, Tod’s Shoes…

• Shopping in Florence. (sartoriallyinclined.blogspot.com)

• Ovadia & Sons. (thesigother.com)

• How great things age: Tod’s driving shoes. (permanentstyle.co.uk)

• Ray Frensham’s second annual list of stylish men. (fineanddandyshopblog.com)

• Cedar wood must-haves. (redclaysoul.com)

• Polo? Tennis? A shirt for both and more. (kyotomaiko.com)

• Why do you dress the way you do? (styleforum.net)

The Age of Innocence

It’s fascinating how life alters your perceptions; how the endurance of aging can erode convictions of childhood, how dearly held truths lost their shine, embrittle and blow away in the uncaring winds of experience.

I used to believe I would never do things that I do now; I used to believe in things I would now heartily denounce. Sweepingly, this is referred to as growing up; maturation; the loss of innocence.

However, I believe innocence is not what I have lost but what I have acquired. When once I considered myself ‘too cool’ to act in a certain way, I now consider myself insufficiently ‘cool’ not to be myself. There is definitely an adult rejection of ‘coolness’ for its own sake; as we grow old, the fads of youth appear laughable, the proponents of its culture credulous and the proprietors of its wares as cynical opportunists.

There is a warm comfort in declaring myself ‘uncool.’ Whereas once such a phrase would have forced me into self-inflicted isolation, it now affords me contentment in my chosen existence. Teenage years are, to me, temporary yet ugly cysts on the sphere of life. Teenagers are susceptible to influence from every source except that which understands and cares for them the most. Teens are unhappy, narcissistic, paranoid and, crucially, pathologically insecure. A recent examination of my teenage wardrobe illustrated to me how unrecognisable a person I was in that seven year period that some people, bizarrely, recall as the zenith of their life.

Every external influence was there: clothing with insignia, brand names crudely emblazoned on sweatshirts; incongruous trends bought whimsically in the company of an approving female. Every external influence that is, except two of the greatest significance; the influence of a mother who studied textile design, produced her own patterns and directed her own shows whilst at fashion college and the influence of a father whose formidable collection of suits and shirts clearly directed, genetically, my late disposition for acquisition and variety of ensemble.

My own teenage collection paid homage to an idol I no longer recognised. Initially, I was disappointed in my own inconstancy; to have built on such sand at one time surely means I am capable of doing so again. Such questions are not trivial. I think the ultimate happiness of continual self-improvement can only be achieved when we are true to our own selves.

However, I was happy to recognise earlier scribbling from my pre-teen years that was more recognisable; tales of top hats, bow ties and even the wide-eyed imaginings of a tailor’s shop. It made me realise that we are not always ourselves, indeed there are long periods of estrangement, but that our true characters always lurk beneath the superficiality of other’s influence.

What a Pitti!

“Pitti Uomo” as the hackneyed phrase goes “is to menswear what Paris fashion week is to womenswear.” A bold statement, and not an untrue one; there is no doubt that the great (and the greatest) as well as the good of international menswear are all to be seen lurking around a chilly Florence, chatting on iPhones, sipping espresso and admiring the spectacle. Jeremy Hackett, Luca Rubinacci and a host of other Sartorialist favourites strut around the magnificent Tuscan city from show to show, brightening each piazza with their dazzling attire.

The coverage of this glut of plumage-presentation is as prodigious as the sheer numbers that pour out of the grey, winter-lit buildings in the most astonishing array of seasonal (and unseasonal) male clothing. Scott Schumann and other photographers’ coverage of Pitti is the National Geographic of menswear; buyers, business owners, tycoons, tailors, shirtmakers, shoemakers and artisans are all captured together through the lens in this tiny habitat. Indeed, the coverage of Pitti peacocks is almost as important to the organisers as the event itself, with PittiImmagine commissioning their own photography of the various species spotted.

The reason for their congregation is actually rather dull; stands exhibit wares that you have already seen before, shows introduce you to fashions you already know. This is perhaps why their mere appearance provokes more interest from the long-lensed street snappers who wait patiently with their D3s or their 1D for an orange checked suit or a fur collar to appear, squinting into the sun. The beauty of the photographers’ position is the intoxicating concentration of experimentation, colour and style that so often evades them in other localities. This is a seasonal feeding; they know the location and they return hungrily year after year.

For all the spectacular creativity on display, you can’t help but get the idea that a good many of the fine species swaggering across the cobbles of Florence are self-consciously on display; their aesthetics refined, intensified and even exaggerated as though they are part of some mating ritual with the lens. There is no shame in this, it is only unfortunate that natural instincts are thrown aside for the benefit of the camera. Others may disagree and cheer that the only thing cast aside are their inhibitions. However you analyse it, they compete for the lens as no prey would compete for the jaws of a predator. The beneficiary of this surreal feast is, of course, the blog devotee; the devourer of sartorial ideas.

Where else would we get the idea for matching our trousers to our buttons?