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.

Leave a Comment

Notes On The Advantages Of Variety

My recent article on my expansive, though scarcely expensive, shoe collection revealed that, in the balance between quantity and quality, I lean more towards the former. Deborah Carre from Carre Ducker made a good point that if I had less greed for variety, I could have purchased maybe one, two or three pairs of some outstanding handmade bespoke shoes of superior quality that would last many more years than the ready-to-wear, predominantly ‘high street’ collection that I possessed.

Whilst this is true, it is indubitably based on how long a shoe lasts for the average person. The average person, as far as I can see, does not have twenty odd pairs of shoes to rotate through, thus maintaining the ‘fitness’ of the shoes through less-than-average use. Average use, from the cursory research I conducted, is wearing a shoe every other day. My black punch cap New & Lingwood Oxfords, purchased in 2003, have lasted seven years and are far from finished; they have only been resoled once and, due to shoe rotation, look a great deal better than many others of the same vintage. Whilst the collection looks gluttonous, it is as much a lesson in longevity as in variety – and if you can have both, for a reasonable price, then what is the issue?

The same goes for suits. A large suit collection, of say 20-30 suits, sounds like gross extravagance but if you wear one everyday, proper circulation should ensure greater wear. No matter how well made a suit is, how thick a fabric, if you plonk yourself down in it, type in it, drink in it and dine in it every damn day, it will soon wear out. There is no doubt that a well-made, tailored suit will last longer than a mass-produced suit, but should you be throwing your entire collection of high street suits on eBay to purchase a single bespoke? Absolutely not. Not only is owning a single suit rather dull, no matter how beautifully it is crafted, it will not outlast you if you subject it to 365 days of wear a year. Holes will appear, fabric will fray; suits, like shoes, need a break if they are expected to last.

This is why I advocate the sustained increase, rather than decrease, in the variety of a gentleman’s suit wardrobe. By all means aspire to greater suits but consider living within your means above lofty expectations of quality. I recently spoke to a gentleman who purchased one Henry Poole suit in his early days as a stockbroker in the 1960s. His elders and betters, similarly attired by equivalent Savile Row tailors, were rather unimpressed, believing that they alone were entitled to march through their Bank offices in bespoke English suits. The lesson came when, his salary frozen, he was unable to purchase any other suit; his savings were gone and his profligacy a point of regret. “I couldn’t afford the suit” he said “and I ended up buying more, of course, at great expense.”

He informed me that it was only a doting father, himself a Savile Row account holder, who backed future purchases. Others, in straitened circumstances, might not be so lucky.

Leave a Comment

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.

Leave a Comment

What’s A Nice Shoe Like You Doing In A Sale Like This

Trawling through the sales at department stores such as Selfridges and Harrods is no happy experience. Harrods is generally unbearable even out-of-season but smack bang in the middle of the January sales it is a tortuous whirligig that manages to make me feel physically ill. If you sell ‘all things for all people’ then you should certainly expect the latter when you offer the former for a greatly reduced price; expect them to push, expect them to shove, trample and snatch.

As much preparation time as they are afforded (virtually the entire calendar year) it is remarkable how consistently chaotic and zoo-like such establishments become in the weeks after Christmas. What is even more incredible is that the stock which, at any other time, is treated by staff with a reverence and protection causing customers to wonder whether they have stumbled into a museum by mistake, is suddenly no longer worthy of the ‘touché-pas’ pedestals; magnificently overpriced baubles, bags and beads, no longer behind glass, are left to the mercy of bargain-thirsty shoppers who rifle through stock piles and scarf bins like primates dismantling an automobile.

It was amongst this mess that I found some of the most splendid examples of footwear I have ever seen. It was an uncanny setting; dumped alongside some of the most vulgar (D&G flipflops) and absurd (Dior trainers) aberrations of shoemaking, they shone with a peculiar quality that set them apart from all other examples. They reminded me of the bespoke examples that sat in the window of Foster & Son or Cleverley with a patina to the leather reminiscent of antique furniture and a shape, classic yet contemporary, that distinguished them from the winkle-pickers and square toes that surrounded them.

The style of the shoes, though slightly fantastical (imagine Tim Burton conjuring a film about a cobbler) is beautiful to behold; the only thing that prevented me from purchasing a pair was the still-prohibitive sale price of £550 (reduced from £800). A pair of the green (yes, green) crocodile shoes, originally £5,000, were reduced to £3,500.

The Stefano and Mario Limited Edition Line is produced by the well known Italian shoe company, Stemar. It would be a disservice to say they are ‘manufactured.’ Manufacture is a cheap and greasy term that invokes a sense of scale and the Stefano and Mario collection, with only 100 pairs of each style produced each season, can hardly be considered an operation of ‘scale.’ According to Stemar it takes approximately 4 weeks to produce an “unfinished shoe” – “15 days during which the shoe must remain in the last, and at least a couple of days for finishing and polishing.”

And indeed, it is the finishing and polishing that distinguishes these shoes; “painted” Stemar say “like works of art.” Firstly, the skin is massaged with cream and a soft cloth. This is followed by days of patient polishing – a technique corroborated by a gentleman at Cleverley who informed me that the ‘old furniture’ look is about using different tones of polish and takes “a very, very long time” – and then the shoes are ironed by hand and naturally waxed to give them a deep shine. The result, as Stemar states, is a “superb pair of shoes” with deep coloured veins “…intense, artistic, just like an oil painting: hues of chestnut, brandy, walnut, hot orange, forest green and mocha.”

Besides being available at Harrods and Selfridges, they are also offered for sale in Milan, Florence and Rome, Paris, Montreux, Istanbul, New York, San Francisco, Enschede and Laren (Holland) and, interestingly, in Lagos, Nigeria, Tomsk in Russia and, perhaps appropriately, a store in Kiev called ‘Rich Boutique.’

Leave a Comment

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.’

Leave a Comment