Style Icon: Matteo Marzotto

There aren’t many Chairmen or Chief Executives who are worthy of the title ‘style icon.’ Despite being in the pink financially, Captains of Industry don’t dress as their myth would suggest. A great number probably use tailors but evidence of their use is never apparent; a lot of the sheeny-shiny stiff-as-a-board suits worn by business leaders are possibly very expensive, despite being laughably ghastly. A lack of interest is probably the reason; vanity does not always go hand in hand with egotism and leadership is not always matched by inspiration. Money and power shout a heck of a lot louder than the brashest pinstripe suit; who needs an elegant drape when you hold all the power in the boardroom? Who wants a flattering silhouette when you’re buying and selling companies like used cars?

Well, Matteo Marzotto seems to. Undeniably one of the most elegantly attired tycoons in the world, Marzotto – always grinning – is an Italian textiles scion who turned the loss-making Valentino brand into a profitable fat cherry that was plucked in the private equity harvest of 2007 for a little over $1bn. Like Lapo Elkann, the Fiat heir, Marzotto was born into a privileged world. However, unlike the surfer-haired jet-setting überdandy, Marzotto’s association and exposure to the fashion world goes further than whimsical fancy. His is a more serious aesthetic, something self-consciously, though elegantly, ordinary. This is no attention-seeking Milanese orchid, fluttering from café to café; he is a businessman, something horrific to unshackled creatives, and his clothes, though exhibiting a sense of the refined and unusual, are appropriate for a man in his position.

As with many style icons, it is not so much what Marzotto wears but the way in which he chooses to wear it. There may be a few brightly striped shirts, a couple of wacky ties but most of his wardrobe seems to conform to that of any elegant Milanese or Roman about town; a wool suit, white or blue shirt, a dark, patterned tie and a white linen square. An easy, don’t-even-have-to-think-about-it combination, but one delivered with effortless panache. Take for example, Marzotto’s utility of his clothing. Whereas many don tailored suits and treat them with the most extraordinary delicacy, he shoves his hands in his double-breasted pockets, cracks a grin and delivers a wink. He lives in his suits and understands them; many others, by comparison, are like waxworks.

His dark ties are a lesson in elegance for the cringeworthy pastel-crew who, despite an inadequately flattering complexion, insist on the sickly sweet-shop salesman aesthetic of pale ties with pale shirts. Marzotto’s tailor, whoever he is, cuts his suits very well; there is the classic Italian shoulder, a relatively high gorge and an unfashionably large lapel. Despite wrestling for control of iconic brands, as he was with Valentino and he is with Vionnet, and using the names to build the business, Marzotto is a walking advert for everything that is nothing to do with brands; wearing clothing that was stitched by unglamorous artisans. Nothing about his style is unnoticeable and yet, it is not designed to be noticed. He is the sort of man, like Elkann, who learned about wearing clothes from a beloved relative; lectured on the value of a cut, coached in the tying of a tie. A man who really understands clothes is never born; he is made.

Albert Ahoy: The Monegasque Royal Wedding

Another wedding, another balding royal; but this time there was something slightly peculiar about the ensemble, something Mediterranean. In the tiny, Hyde Park-sized principality of Monaco, Prince Albert II married his South African bride Charlene Wittstock in the Saturday sunshine. There was no carriage ride, no cavalry guard, no scarlet tunics or polished riding boots. Instead, the Grimaldi scion wed in an ivory-white military uniform that clashed rather awkwardly with his wife’s sleek-but-dull Armani gown. Fellow royals from Sweden, Great Britain and Holland were also clad in white – famously the least favoured of all dress-uniforms – and the addition of white shoes made their ensembles ever so slightly absurd.

Unlike his father, who famously wed Grace Kelly in a pompous but more fittingly regal navy tunic, embellished with gold thread and spurious military awards, paired with sky blue and gold-braided trousers and accessorised with a jewelled sword, Albert – a ruler in charge of the smallest military force in the world – looked more like a ship’s captain from a 1940s Pacific & Orient pleasure vessel in the summer uniform of the palace guards. Whereas Grace was allowed to gleam, Charlene had to clash; in the sheen of her gown, there was no sign of the legendary elegance of the groom’s mother who had so influenced the bride of the year’s other royal wedding. As one has come to expect from Armani – a gifted but scarcely imaginative designer – the dress itself was flatteringly simple and, alongside the pleasure-cruise uniform of her new husband and the crowd of bluebloods, entirely disappeared.

There was something rather flabby and carefree about the Prince’s ensemble, and indeed that of other royals. For a place that is considered to be the world’s most glamorous superyacht marina, the uniform was certainly appropriate but it lacked the sober majesty of other royal wedding tunics. It was an aesthetic redolent of sweet vermouth cocktails and sticky nightclubs – apposite for a ‘party Prince’ but jarring with the reverence of a Catholic ceremony: it is a rare wedding that allows the groom to be ‘the meringue.’ The majority of the attendees, including Karl Lagerfeld, Sir Roger Moore (orthopaedically shoed) and Bernard Arnault, were in formal morning dress but there were a number of uncovered female shoulders, despite requests to abide by cathedral dress codes, and more than a few pairs of loafers. This was very much a Med wedding.

And yet, as shocking as Albert’s seasonal uniform was, in the beating sunshine and azure background of the glittering Mediterranean, it looked far more apropos than the double-breasted waistcoat and tails sported by others who looked like dazed colonials, shipwrecked on their return from India, squinting into the sun. The military whites looked like dashing sailors taking shore leave in a sunny paradise.

As ridiculous as it was to smash the bride’s white prerogative, Albert’s pristine uniform matched the gleaming and manicured buildings in the quiet and ancient Monaco-Ville; had he climbed into a carriage it would have been preposterous, instead he climbed into a new Lexus landaulette. It was a little gauche, and would certainly have made other royals wince, but it did fit the occasion.  Albert does not pretend to be a knight in shining armour – indeed, with his reputation and flutter of rumours regarding a paternity suit, he most certainly could not. Unlike Kate Middleton, who beamed with unnerving consistency at her marriage to a prince, Charlene Wittstock rarely deployed her smile. Perhaps it was the paternity rumours, or possibly the service? Or maybe it was the sight of her husband, gleaming and winking in white; for clashing with his bride on her big day, even a prince might have some grovelling to do.

Style Icon: The Duke of Edinburgh

As one of the oldest members of the British Royal family, you would not expect Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh (DoE) to be the most controversial and yet this gruff, plain-speaking, perpetually joking consort to the Queen is rarely anything but. A recent television interview in honour of his 90th birthday highlighted some of his increasingly impatient, fogeyish tendencies and provided some glorious PR-free gems; “I’ve done my bit, it’s someone else’s turn” and “Problem with the world is overpopulation. My solution would be family limitation” and “I’m not a green; I’m not a bunny hugger.”

If there is a Windsor family ‘line’, the DoE doesn’t tow it. Neither does he tiptoe around difficult subjects like his son Charles with hand-wringing or ‘Umms’ and ‘Aaahs.’ Instead, he launches into responses like a hungry beater at a hunt banquet, tearing into topics that politicians won’t even touch with the abandon and self-belief of a patriarch from another age. He doesn’t think much of himself either and his apparent bemusement at social functions, questioning eyes and baffled expression is down to, what he termed, “going downhill.” The DoE is looking for an exit from the circus.

However, as nonplussed as he was to receive birthday attention (“I’m 90, so what”), the DoE deserves further mention and recognition of an asset of his that has never failed him, something he carries so naturally and so free of artifice and something which has, unlike the rest of him, failed to decay; his style. While most people at 90 are stumbling around – if they’re still able to stumble – in Ecco shoes and comfy sweaters, the DoE mucks around in morning dress and white tie – at the appropriate occasions of course – as if he were still 23 years of age.

Recent events confirmed his ability to look comfortable in even the most outrageously flamboyant, brutally regal ensemble such as that he wore to his grandson’s wedding as well as his ability to outshine an assembly of power and celebrity at the Palace for a white tie state dinner. The DoE is a skilled natural in manners of his dress and one of his particular strengths is his maintenance of proper proportions; waistcoats worn at the proper height, trousers cut to the perfect length. His persistent adherence to this is often attributed to his having been brought up in another age, which is partly true, but it seems to be something he has passed down to his eldest son; a rare harmony in a notoriously discordant relationship.

Unlike his son however, the DoE is less ornate when it comes to sartorial decoration. He does not share his admiration for double-breasted suits and prefers a folded white square to the patterned silks, although his tie knot is noticeably thicker; perhaps a nod to the DoE’s acceptance of current fashion. The Prince of Wales is certainly more of a dandy than his father – not an uncommon remark in the history of the British Royal family – but the DoE always seems to be having more fun in his clothes rather than fun with his clothes. Not that there is a problem with the latter, quite the opposite. It is simply that the DoE’s approach, though less accomplished, possesses more idiosyncratic charm.

In his interview, the DoE scoffed when the interviewer asked how he would describe himself at birth “Well, I was a Greek national but I was Danish by race.” And now, how would he describe himself? “Well, I wouldn’t. I’m just ‘here.’”

Sexuality and Style

Sexuality and style are two of the most misunderstood facets of life. Combine the two and you are presented with one of the most confused, jumbled, nonsensical, contradictory forms of human signalling and communication I have ever encountered. Sex itself is not the issue; although it boasts an enormous and essential role in the fashion world, in style it is an also-ran. Sexual appeal is the issue and it has become the shy elephant in the room ‘that dare not speak it’s name’; proverb-cocktails aside, it is a largely unspoken problem and one of deep importance that goes to the heart of society’s interpretation of aesthetics and sexuality. And, as sweetly attractive as the ideas of ‘truth’, ‘honesty’ and ‘veracity’ are, interpretation is the emperor of thought in the modern age and this applies as much to the most powerful politicians in the world as it does the lowly bedroom-based hack.

“Anonymous said…
You’re not like a faggot, are you?”

The above comment was posted to my blog last week. I apologise if it offends readers as it offended me but it was necessary to include it as part of this analysis as it provided the catalyst for these thoughts. I have received similar comments in the past and the, arguably wise, advice from friends and followers has always been to ignore them. Ignorance is sensible and a happy state but it’s rather selfish and short-termist. It shows no regard for the long-game problem of prejudice, and the causes of that prejudice, and it actually propagates the self-conscious superiority that can fuel such mistrust and hatred.

It is an interesting comment for it can be interpreted in more than one way. Perhaps the commentator was a keen follower of the blog and was expressing disquiet about my deportment and attire representing more than a love of colour and pattern and, inexplicably, connected one love with another; love of inanimate objects to love of a particular anatomy. Perhaps the commentator was a follower of these articles and decided to make a visit to my blog to examine the author; perhaps they had chanced upon the blog whilst idly browsing the Blogger pages. However they arrived at the point at which they decided to make that comment, they must still have possessed a motive and intent to produce an effect and reaction – and I doubt they expected this.

Whilst chatting on the topic with my friend Barima recently, I realised how much of an issue sexuality and style was and always has been. Living in a metropolis like London is an unrepresentative experience of a country. The sophistry and cosmopolitan nature of city life leads you to an appealing numbness to things that are different; what to the rest of the world is sideshow-freakery is merely humdrum to the metropolitan.

Heading into the sparsely populated ‘shires attracts more looks of suspicion than admiration – Britons don’t like ‘different’ things – and a great deal of what people do not understand needs a simplistic explanation. This applies not only to my country but to many others. People have been known to ask, rather awkwardly, about sexuality, even when one has an arm around a girl. It doesn’t seem normal to a lot of people to be what many have said they would consider ‘well-dressed’ and be anything other than a homosexual. And it is not only stag-fighting that provokes such supposition; women have also been known to leap to such conclusions. Despite frequent protestations from the fairer sex that men should take more care of themselves, develop at least a half-interest in dressing and take pride in their appearance, the reality is that their desires at the courtship phase are frequently the opposite. This is where the lines of sexual understanding between the sexes blur; when societal suspicions and ‘interpretations’ take hold.

Clothing has often played a role in signalling sexual inclination. The ‘Green Carnation’ is one of the most famous trademarks – prompting Noel Coward to use the reference in his musical Bitter Sweet, which premiered when homosexuality was still illegal; “And as we are the reason for the “nineties” being gay, we all wear a green carnation.” And, as Barima informed me, in the 1960s and 1970s, Tommy Nutter’s Savile Row emporium was a haven for London’s gay sartorialists and that for some people, the Nutter suit became a symbol of something more than stylistic élan.

Today, there is no dyed flower or flared trouser, coloured-button stitching or peculiar item of sartorial jewellery representing the calling card. At the beginning of the last century, a noticeably well-dressed man was likely to have been considered a terror of the ladies, which, in fairness, is partly due to the organised oppression, criminalisation and concealment of homosexuality but also partly to do with the aesthetic ideals of the age.

A century later and even the merest poke of a pocket square is apt to provoke the castigation of a suspicious public. A well-dressed man is no longer simply a well-dressed man. Unless he is overtly expressing his true sexuality for the benefit of the presumptuous and feeble minded, he is a foregone conclusion.

In 1911, he is a cad.

In 2011, he is a gay.

His sexual identification, curiously and necessarily entwined with his manner of dress, may be misapplied but his sexual appeal rarely is.

Brand Review: Ignatious Joseph

I daren’t count my shirts. I have so many of them that I have dedicated an entire wardrobe to them – space which, to be honest, I can ill afford – and they hang there not in the happy glory of enshrinement but positively wedged into the space; so much so that when I open the doors to remove my shirt for the day, I am forced to rearrange the collection in order to avoid damage. Each time this occurs, I deliver to myself the same, useless mantra; ‘No more. NO more.’

Useless, for I have no will to refrain from shirt purchases. For some men, buying a shirt is like buying milk at the supermarket. You’re convinced you need it because everyone else seems to be buying it, but when you get home you realise the fridge is already an overstuffed lactose orgy. It doesn’t help that I live a hop, skip and a jump from Jermyn Street, the ‘home of shirts’, where tourists crowd the chain-boutiques of TM Lewin and Hawes & Curtis, and gasp in incredulity that you can actually purchase a formal shirt for under £35.

Spoiled as I am, I have little manufacturer variety in my collection – as kaleidoscopic as the colours and patterns are, the labels are limited. A problem? Probably not; if you find a shirt store that caters for your needs, why change?

Ignatious Joseph became known to me through the great multitude of coverage in online blogging; there he was photographed at Pitti Uomo by Scott Schuman, there he was being interviewed by an online magazine. I knew of his product, fine Italian-made shirts, but I didn’t really know his product; I am pleased to say that the latter problem has now been corrected. I am the owner of a splendid pale pink Ign. Joseph shirt (pictured above) that possesses one of the most gorgeous collars I have ever owned.

Unlike many of my other shirts, the Ign. Joseph shirt has a deceptively robust construction; deceptive because it looks and feels no stronger than any other cotton shirt. Though I was impressed with the details – chunky mother-of-pearl buttons the colour of antique bone, long Italian cuffs – it was the way in which the unbuttoned torso retained structure that excited me. I was used to my unbuttoned shirts crumpling under my jackets; wrinkling plackets, sinking collars. To actually wear a shirt that stood up so well was an unexpected pleasure.

Ign. Joseph shirts are made of fine Egyptian cotton, woven and sewn by experienced shirtmakers in Italy and the wonderful collars, hand-sewn (non-fused), are one of the hallmarks of the brand, the other of course being the elegant and passionate proprietor himself, the charming Ignatious. Whilst his team of shirtmakers cut, thread and knot in Piedmont, across the Alps in Dusseldorf, Ignatious holds court in his spectacular red shoes, espousing the virtues of quality over mass production, of individuality over mass appeal and of shirts over everything else. As Ignatious says, “…The shirt is an intimate garment that must merit confidence”; a shirt dignifies and protects.

Once accustomed to the easy elegance of an Ign. Joseph, the cheaply produced wares from certain shirtmakers – though relatively speaking, excellent value for money – feel somewhat inadequate and not just for the superficiality of plastic buttons or even the fused collars. I felt flattered in my Ign. Joseph; a sensation other shirts seldom offer.