Why The Fuss: The Trouble With High Fashion

It was a moment of dewy-eyed ecstasy; an elderly relative of mine, transfixed by a high definition broadcast of an expensively produced and visually breathtaking nature program. The brilliance of it seemed almost too much for a person who, in their youth, had first known television as a gigantic box with a tiny black and white screen. As they enthused about how wonderful the colours and the detail were, I considered the transformation of the format in his lifetime; from analogue to digital, from a tiny screen to a truly massive one, from CRT to LED and, crucially, from black and white to full colour.

I don’t know of a single person who longs for a black and white world. The presence of colour is one of the most fantastic accidents of life that I strive to appreciate far more than I actually do. I could see sitting next to my teary relation, who pointed and smiled with childlike joy, that the gift of vivid colour is truly marvellous. Colour is present in virtually every memory of beauty, both of celebration and regret; the bubblegum pink sunset from the terrace, the reddened tear stained cheek of a weeping child, the first blue-sky morning of Spring, a single blood red rose on a mossy gravestone.

You would think, given such treasures of inspiration, that the creatives in men’s high fashion would produce styles which reflect the gorgeousness and brilliance of colour on Mother Earth. You would assume that the vaunted corridors of the grand French houses were torrents of vivid colour; experimental clothiers excitedly dashing back and forth with garish greens, brilliant blues, rusty reds, yolky yellows, princely purples and ochre oranges, forming psychedelic arteries, feeding the colourful whimsy of fashion’s Willy Wonka. Your assumption would be presumptuous.

In fact, the houses of Dior Homme, Yves Saint Laurent and the like are so far from this bounty of colour and happiness that it makes one wonder whether their points of inspiration are not the leaden skies of London, so monotonously monochromatic are their ‘collections.’ The ‘boys’ in Dior’s recent spring/summer collection did not seem the kind of happy-go-lucky chaps who spend a weekend at their aunts in Kent, ask some friendly girls out for a punt, get sozzled on vintage champagne and then sing till the early hours in the flower beds with a view of the stars – in other words, the kind of privileged audience some fashion designers would hope to appeal to. In actual fact, they appeared more like underfed, underpaid goons from some science-fiction Orwellian netherworld where it is never sunny, where smiles are outlawed and where colour-vision has been brutally removed from every citizen’s retina.

I find it absolutely exasperating that men’s high fashion, instead of being the leading, shining example to us all of positive, beautiful and colourful expression, churns out such depressing dreck. In an age where men are permitted to ‘peacock out’, when we have long since shrugged off the infuriating sombre blackness of Victorian propriety, the ‘talent’ that reigns in some of the greatest and most influential halls of fashion fame seems intent on pushing out the same garb, entirely irrespective of season; a collection wholly composed of boring black, weary white and grisly grey.

Shoe Collection

Back row (l-r): Brown wholecuts by Dune; black One Collection ‘Chance’ by Jones; brown One Collection ‘Step’ by Jones; black tassel loafers by Church’s; grey suede and leather two tone by Russell & Bromley; mid brown shoes by Zara; light brown Chelsea boots by Zara

Middle row (l-r): Black pointed shoes by Zara; black punchcap Oxfords by New & Lingwood; tan punchcap Oxfords by New & Lingwood; cream punchcap Oxfords by Grenson; patent shoes by Zara; black and peanut patent/leather co-respondent shoes by Dune; black canvas/leather co-respondent shoes by Dune

Front row (l-r): White shoes by TopMan; brown deck shoes by Austin Reed; oxblood double monkstraps by Nunes Correa; grey and white detail leather shoes by Zara; brown suede shoes by Nunes Correa; brown leather/canvas co-respondent shoes by Dune; brown and black leather wholecuts by Dune; patent leather Oxfords by Church’s

“Just how many pairs of shoes have you got?” they all ask when they spy me wearing a style that is making its debut. I decline to answer not because I take affront to the question but because I haven’t got the foggiest idea how many shoes I own. Do they want the numbers on the smart shoes? The leather ones? Or do they want me to include plimsolls, espadrilles and wellington boots? It was after a recent shopping excursion to the outstanding Crombie sale, and subsequent disappointment at the lack of a pair of tan tassel loafers in my size, that I decided to shine a torchlight into the unknown; there I was, ready to pay for yet another pair of shoes not knowing how many I actually owned. It is general wisdom that if you cannot readily quantify how much you have of something, you have too much.

Embarrassed by my footwear riches, I decided to sit down and count through the collection not only to satisfy myself of the actual quantity but to examine the range, to see how it had been built. I cleaned, polished and laid out twenty two pairs of smart leather shoes, all of which receive regular use. The strange setup reminded me of a photograph I had seen of the writer and celebrated dandy Nick Foulkes, sat amongst his own substantial shoe collection wearing a loud check suit, conveying a look that was an unusual mixture of apology, pride and satisfaction; I decided against replicating this mise-en-scène and left the shoes to convey what needed to be conveyed: quantity and variety.

It was somewhat strange to see all the shoes together. I had always been confident that I bought dissimilar shoes; “I don’t have” I would mutter “anything in this colour or style.” In truth, some of my shoes are quite similar indeed. It might surprise some that I, being a town-mouse, own so many brown shoes. I don’t subscribe to the ‘no brown in town’ rule as it has ceased to be relevant. Black is certainly the most traditional shoe colour to wear in the city, but considering the number of casual shoes that dominate the streets – plimsolls, All Stars and training shoes – a smart brown shoe no longer looks out of place. I noted that most of the shoes have a predominantly classical shape and style, about which I was not surprised, but I was amazed that I only owned one pair of smart slip-on shoes – a circumstance which I had attempted to adjust on my recent visit to Crombie.

I am rather glad I took the time to arrange the collection as it provides a perfect point of reference when I am considering further pairs; I know, for instance, that I have little need of mid-brown lace ups without taxing my brain or rifling through the boxes under my bed. As embarrassing as it is to own such a variety of shoes, please note that the collection pictured above does not include my seasonal range of espadrilles, plimsolls or driving shoes.

Thoughts on New Zealand

New Zealand is a country with so much to offer, I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend you visit it at least once. Indeed, my recent second visit left just as profound a mark as my first.

However, for all my admiration I think if I lived there I would go off my rocker. Firstly, I didn’t see one attractive woman – other than the one I took with me. Secondly, and most importantly, Kiwi men are utterly unrepentant in their desire to dress badly. Indeed, they almost revel in it.

Any kind of interest in clothing is viewed as effeminate. It was as though the last forty years in male clothing and grooming hadn’t happened. Something as common place in Europe as a pink shirt is viewed with the very greatest suspicion. I was even pilloried for deck shoes. It was considered great sport by my girlfriend’s family to get me to wear a pair of jandals (read flip-flops).

So what do I mean by badly dressed? For the most part I’m talking about a complete a lack of flair, care, quality and above all effort. The antipodean stereotype of stubbies (short short), singlet and work boots was all too common. But even going out to dinner it was not uncommon to see men in flip-flops. At best you’d see an excess of the purely mundane - poorly tailored jeans and uninspiring tops and trainers or work boots.

In some ways this is a factor of the outdoorsy, active lifestyle New Zealand provides. You’re not going to wear a linen suit on the beach, but there are ways to dress well and comfortably. Well tailored shorts and polo provides both comfort and, depending on colour and pattern, a degree of relaxed elegance, if done right. For the most part all I saw were men throwing on cheap, scruffy clothes without effort or care. Harmony of pattern and colour was for the most part absent.

Of course every country has its poorly dressed contingent, even in metropolitan centres. But for all the country’s natural beauty, even in the most cosmopolitan of NZ’s cities, I still couldn’t claim to have seen anyone I regarded as well dressed.

In Tune With Nature

I once had the fortune of passing through a filming location, near Carlton House Terrace. The catering vans were lined up, the cameras and gigantic lights poised, and soil, representing a pre-tarmac era, covered the streets.

Props of an antiquated style were lying around, a few horses were standing near to an equestrian vehicle and dotted around the scene was a very decorative collection of actors and extras; they were standing or sitting, chatting with that particular anxiety of believing the conversation to be soon interrupted, smoking and dressed in splendour.

The women wore long, decorative Edwardian coats and enormous hats. At their sides, the men supported their arms with buckskin gloves and leaned on ebony canes; they wore a variety of top, bowler and Homburg hats, short and tailed coats, neckties cravats and bows.

The sheer variety of styles, contrasting to the women’s general uniformity, was a slight exaggeration of the period but nevertheless a good example of the revolution of Edwardian menswear that signalled the end of the gloomy frock-coated uniformity of the Victorian period and the adoption of a youthful, more stylised approach to fashion.

Aside from the variety, the other thing I noticed about the clothing – despite the fact that it was pure costume – was that the coats, trousers, hats and canes were perfectly in tune with the surroundings. Members of the crew, attired in twenty-first century gear – puffa jackets, jeans, trainers and baseball caps – looked inordinately scruffy next to the slim, tailored lines and subtle colours of the characters.

It was also remarkable that when some of them strolled under a tree, near a chestnut mare or past a carriage, how in tune with Nature itself the clothing was; I looked into the sweet, pink afternoon sky and imagined a colossal smile forming in the clouds.

The issue of the purpose and art of clothing struck me there and then. I had always believed in the harmonious approach; the reflection of Nature, the vanity of attempting to recreate its beauty, is nevertheless noble. I have always believed this to be true of architecture but now I began to notice that the responsibility of harmony, of bowing to Nature – with her colours, frills and curlicues – extended to other forms of art. There is little in life that makes us happier than Nature itself and man has sought to faithfully glorify nature, to pay tribute to the magnificent inspiration it conjures in humankind.

The unifying quality of that variety of clothing was that it all fit perfectly with the columns, windows, trees, gates and carriages that surrounded it. It is a quality that also unifies clothing from previous decades and even centuries: I could not imagine a Tudor, Stuart or Hanoverian subject looking as incongruous as the twenty-first century runners, skipping around the set in clothing without line, form or beauty.

This division emphasised to me not that clothing had ceased to be an important point of the faithful artistic representation of Nature, but that this representation was more important than ever before. The voice of the quiet appreciator of an endangered oak, a glorious terrace of buildings soon to be demolished or a silk topper discarded by its owner, is growing ever quieter in the din of ‘progress.’

Value For Money In Cashmere

It’s hard to pick apart the value for money in much of menswear. But one that is particularly difficult is cashmere. There are Uniqlo sweaters for £39.99 and Ralph Lauren ones for £395. What could possibly explain the difference?

A recent article in The Economist’s spin-off magazine Intelligent Life went some way to an explanation. Apologies for merely reporting their investigative journalism, but it’s good stuff and I know it is not distributed everywhere in the world.

Cashmere used to be universally expensive because its import into the European Union was limited. I don’t know the facts in the US, but a few years ago there seemed to be a flood of cheap cashmere here in Europe. This was because the import quotas were raised in 2005. Suddenly Scotland and Italy did not dominate the market.

At the same time, many Chinese factories had switched from just producing cashmere to producing cashmere garments. It was this ability to produce a finished product, together with the quotas, that enabled western stores to offer cashmere at such radically reduced prices.

So part of what you pay for is location. Scottish and Italian factories will tell you that with their cashmere comes more attention to detail, more quality control and more ethical production. I don’t know (and Intelligent Life didn’t mention) anything about the truth of these points. The Chinese factories certainly make it greater bulk – up to 400,000 pieces a day in one case. But their standards are also getting better every year.

There are definitely differences in quality between cashmeres, though.

Cashmere is the long-haired wool that goats grow as an extra coat in the winter. It falls off in the Spring unless the farmers comb it off. Once it is combed, the cashmere needs to be spun to separate any remaining short body hairs. Some producers don’t bother to do this.

There are also short and long cashmere hairs. The longer the hair, the more robust the product will be that is woven from it. You can spot short hairs (and the shorter body hair) by looking at the surface – the fluffier and fuzzier it is, the more hair ends are standing up. Shorter hairs will also pill more, though this can happen to all products (better cashmere should pill less after its first wash).

Be suspicious of sweaters that feel too soft immediately. Like many things of value, good cashmere will be feel better and softer over time (and with occasional washes). The product will last longer as well.

Finally, cheap products tend to be woven thinly. So the sweater up to the light – better ones will tend to be denser, because more wool has been used and because of the longer hairs.

There are also figures for the length and width of hairs. Good cashmere is around 35-40mm in length, 15 microns in width; top producers compete over each micron. It is also slightly harder, and so more expensive, to create strong colours – cream, brown and grey are far easier than plum, orange or pink. The whiter raw cashmere is, the more expensive it is but the easier to dye. But this is just for the really high-end. The biggest price difference is due to purity, location and weaving.

So what’s the best value for money? Unsurprisingly, small brands that produce great product yet don’t pay for marketing, stores or advertising. The article mentioned Pure Collection as a good example (www.purecollectioncashmere.com).

Thanks for the journalism, Intelligent Life.