The Pocket Watch Chain

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a fine antique pocket watch is in want of a fine antique chain. Readers of my blog will note that I was very fortunate to receive the former as a Christmas present last year; a happy event that has initiated a search for the latter. I own a perfectly good chain – an eBay bought modern knock off – which is certainly functional and not entirely unsatisfactory, but is simply not in the same league of beauty as the timepiece.

What I have discovered on my search for the perfect chain – which is, after all, the most consistently visible part of the pocket watch accessory – is not only that antique watch chains are highly valuable and desirable pieces of jewellery, but also that there is an incredible variety of styles for a great range of budgets. This shouldn’t be particularly surprising considering that, at one stage, a pocket watch was an essential accessory for gentlemen of all incomes.

Before it became the eccentric bauble for formal dress that it is today, before the wristwatch became the timepiece of choice, the world was full of chains and fobs, swinging from woollen waistcoats; there were solid gold and silver chains for men of state, shipping tycoons and oil barons; plated versions for ambitious clerks, junior barristers and bond salesmen. There were round links, square links, mixed links; large fobs, small fobs and funny fobs.

As with any incident of extraordinary variety, I have found selection difficult. Not being an astute collector, my eye is drawn to what I perceive to be the most attractive, not the most unusual or most valuable; I have passed over solid silver Victorian chains of unappealing bulk but been enraptured with mid-20th century plated knock offs. The greasiest and least appealing part of any transaction for precious metal for me is the weight/cost ratio; a heavy solid silver or gold chain will always command a premium, no matter how indelicate or basic the design.

Link design is one of the most important points of consideration. The vast majority of watch chains use graduated curb links which interlock with each other when laid flat. However, I consider the most appealing design to be one described, nebulously, as a ‘fancy’ chain; long rectangular links alternating with twisted knots. Although a good number of these chains are Art Deco, some are incorrectly labelled as being of early twentieth century design; this type of chain was actually very popular in the late 19th century.

Fortunately, many of these chains are plated and therefore considerably cheaper than the standard curb chains which, when a solid silver ‘Double Albert’, can often be nearing $1000. Adding a fob to the chain is an option, although for some the chain is enough of a decoration.

Re-using the Denim Jacket

I am often surprised by the number of friends and acquaintances of mine who admit to owning, though rarely using, a jacket constructed of denim. I am a monumental hypocrite in this regard, as I still own one bought earlier in my youth; one which I enjoyed wearing with smart black trousers, a white shirt, a slim black tie and black loafers.

Though not an offensive aesthetic in retrospect, it is fair to say that I have moved on – in both age and style – since those days and, though I cherish the fond memories of wearing the jacket as well as wrapping it around the shoulders of ludicrously underdressed young ladies on a stumble home, I have not found many uses for it recently.

This is not without trying, as I have often attempted to mix it into an ensemble for an evening’s fun on the town. The trouble is, I look at the jacket and see myself eight or nine years ago; a cocky, floppy-haired whippet. As I scan up to my aging face, conservative hairstyle and tired eyes, it becomes clear that I need to rethink my continual efforts to reincorporate it into my regular wardrobe. Call it age denial, call it sentimentality, but I cannot find the courage to bin the thing. Instead of being anti the denim jacket aesthetic, I have come to the conclusion that I simply don’t understand it anymore.

However, on pondering its removal to make some much needed space in my reserve wardrobe, I thought through some potential ensembles which, come the spring, may be worth attempting. It is often worn with matching jeans, which is a disastrously studied and dated look, though there are some who wear it with denim of a contrasting tone and texture; a stonewashed jacket with new denim, and vice versa. However, I think it is best deployed when no other denim is on show, particularly with khaki chinos; it needs to stand out, and therefore needs contrasting materials and colours.

This is perhaps why, in my mind, a suitable spring ensemble for a denim jacket might be a pair of slim fitting khakis, a white shirt, a denim jacket and a pair of sockless penny loafers. Arguably, still a youthful look but one which a man nearing thirty has more confidence in attempting. Adventurous chaps may wish to add a seersucker bow tie to prep it up and, for the Layerists, to button up a slim-fitting denim jacket under a cream trench; keeping it Americana-but-still-Ivy-League will prevent it going the way of the cowboy hat.

The Alternative Trench

“You look like Inspector Gadget!” one friend cried as the other shuffled into his cream trench coat, flashing the Burberry check lining.

I always remembered this put-down as it reminded me of the frequent misfortune of iconic association; like those who hear Rossini’s William Tell Overture and think of ‘The Lone Ranger’ or those who point to my bow tie and say ‘Hey! Doctor Who!’ Some wardrobe items, when abused by popular culture, acquire a one-channel relevance for all those who were otherwise unaware. The trench coat is a piece of classic outerwear and one of the most practical methods of protecting our finely crafted suits from the persistent and uncaring elements. And yet, in its default colourings of buff, khaki or cream it can have an overtly theatrical and cliché effect.

This was a primary concern of a reader who wanted to know which colour of raincoat, besides the traditional, was most acceptable. Whilst I did spend some time in my response trying to convince him that the traditional colouring was still the most favourable as it would age better, I did concede that not all who look upon a long coat the colour of desert sand, with buttoned epaulettes and a buckled belt see Humphrey Bogart but rather, cartoonish ridicule. Speaking of which, the reader had already ruled out several colours for similar reasons; red (“I’m not Carmen San Diego either…”) black (“Black raincoats look too sinister”) and royal blue (“A friend has one…it’s way too attention seeking.”)

Though there are plenty of colours left, there are few that are suitable for a smart trench and I was dreading – with this reader’s reticence to experiment – that the choice was being pushed toward navy blue; the default tone for gentlemen of fear. There is no doubt that navy blue would be a smart alternative to the traditional tones, and is often better for gentlemen of fair complexion, but it was too hackneyed a second choice to recommend on its own, without other alternatives.

Moss green is not the first colour associated with rain coats, despite it’s associations with the trenches of the First World War which, unsurprisingly, is the reason for its nickname. It is a subtle green which is not horn-honkingly different to draw too much attention, and smart enough to adapt to elegant ensembles. One of the best things about a moss green coat is the wonderful contrast with various shades of blue – ideal for the classic navy suit enthusiast - as well as its compatibility with grey and brown.

However, against black, the moss green somehow loses its way; it dies against the lifelessness of the tone. Make way for the grey trench; apart from white, there are few tones which complement black better than grey. Monotone palettes might be, well, monotonous to some, but they are the smartest solution for those who favour colour-killing block black. In this circumstance, a black raincoat may indeed be too much, and there is no doubt that a navy would clash horrendously, but when our Reservoir Dog slips into a mid-grey belted mac, there will be nods of unexpected approval.

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?