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.’

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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.’

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Is That A Real Pocket Watch

“Is that a real pocket watch?” they ask, poking at the chain on my waistcoat. I am always amazed by the reaction – invariably silent surprise – when they discover that I am indeed wearing a real pocket watch. The question ‘why’ often follows the discovery and, though I am loathe to justify my attire to anyone, I am happy to inform the inquirer that I am rather keen on knowing the time.

Of course, one does not only wear a pocket watch for reasons of practicality. No one wears any decorative time piece purely for effective timekeeping. For one thing, a pocket watch is nowhere near as handy as a wristwatch. They are often heavy and, depending on the style of chain, can be rather intrusive. It has been nearly a century since the acknowledged death of the pocket watch. Through transitional models, the wristwatch defied convention to become the pre-eminent  What was viewed as feminine and inappropriate for a gentleman before the 1920s became the norm soon after. Since the 17th century the pocket watch had been the only serious portable timekeeping accessory but the fashions of the twentieth century’s third decade were so forward looking, and partly due to the horror of the First World War, so rejecting of the past that it’s decline was, perhaps, unusually rapid.

Nowadays, no one wears any kind of timepiece without wanting to show it off and the modern day wearer of the pocket watch is no different. The practice is generally adopted by very old gentlemen or young gentlemen who fancy themselves very old; on the latter, it often looks like costume but on the former, despite the fact that even they are too young to have worn a pocket watch in its heyday, it fits perfectly. I imagine this has something to do with the vast array of twentieth century photographs of statesmen such as Winston Churchill, Arthur Balfour and David Lloyd George, greying Victorian relics who always wanted the jazz turned down, wearing elaborate pocket watches.

Unless you have oodles of cash to spend on such an item at Breguet, one of the best places to look for an attractive and finely made pocket watch is at auction. eBay can sometimes offer some wonderful bargains but watch out for the sellers from the Far East claiming to retail a classic British pocket watch – that is made in China. Silver and gold are the metals used most often on antique pocket watches and whether you prefer one or the other is entirely personal. I like silver myself as it is slightly fresher, more youthful and more versatile.

The key to wearing a pocket watch is nonchalance. Nonchalance and an appearance of habit. Fiddle around with your chain too much and the look will look forced and clownish. It is an ideal occasion to wear it with black tie as a black waistcoat, under a black jacket, looks utterly dead. The brightness of a pocket watch chain brings out the proportions of the waistcoat wonderfully. It is also nice to wear it in a day suit, but be careful not to ‘ham’ the look up too much – adding spats and a fedora are far too much. It will always work best with darker colours and, in order to avoid costume associations, wear with simple accessories.

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Christmas Presents For Gentlemen

I once accompanied a friend on a shopping trip, at his request, to ease the frustration he experienced when deliberating over clothing choices. Invariably, he informed me, there had always been some partially interested female who would accompany him, their spirits strengthened by the promise of brunch at Le Caprice, to advise on his questions; “Is this too tight?”; “Am I allowed to wear this?”; “Will this look stupid on me?”; “Does this make me look gay?” On this occasion, there was no such female; the friend was in the middle of a brief ‘dry patch.’ We two alone, wandered through the emporia of central London together. I learned a great deal about him on that trip. I also learned a great deal about the psychology of self-determinism.

Men want just as much, just as often as women – they might roll their eyes at handbag lust, tut-tut at shoe envy and shake their head in disapproval at the creaking racks in a girlfriend’s wardrobe but they have their little ‘adored treasures’ too. The problem is, many men are unwilling to purchase said treasures with their own money. Whereas women adopt a truly enlightened approach towards treasure-shopping (‘Buy now, repent later’), men crumble when attempting to summon the courage to secure these items. There is something about handing over one’s own money that causes one to ask ‘Why am I DOING this?’ At the till, the eyes scan the item with a nervous flicker; fearful thoughts rocket through the mind as the conscience hammers away. For some items, such an experience is simply endurance. For the ‘treasures’, the items a gentleman would dearly love to have but simply could not buy, the experience is horrific. I myself have experienced a peculiar hand shaking, palm-sweating, head-pulsing sensation when indulging. Exceedingly unpleasant.

To avoid this awful physiological reaction to self-indulgence, men who are reluctant to exact self-determinism may wish to pass on weaker, subliminal hints to those dear to them in order that it may be a merry Christmas for all.

Cravat

One of the ‘treasured’ items on the shopping trip with my friend, the cravat is a common object of lust for men. Most deny such lust stating disingenuously that cravats are ‘old farty’, ‘crusty’ or ‘poofy.’ In actual fact, cravats are an accessory of distinction that men crave the confidence to wear. My good friend cooed and ahhed, caressing the silk fondly in a way that was rather disturbing only to respond to the suggestion that he purchased the item; “I just couldn’t buy a cravat. Ever”

Opera pumps

Variously named ‘evening pumps’, ‘opera pumps, or simply ‘pumps’, these shoes are one of the most controversial wardrobe items in a gentleman’s wardrobe. Countless panicky threads are begun on style forums asking, democratically, for permission and approval; “Should I buy them?”; “My girlfriend said they’re really feminine…”; “£300 is a lot for evening shoes”; “I like them, but…” The men who know their own mind will purchase these shoes in a blink. However, most men cannot justify the expenditure. Their fear is that they will be laughed at, in a comical style, on the very first occasion they wear them; women and men, their very sides splitting, on seeing such dainty shoes. It is these thoughts that cause men to place the plastic back into the wallet, shake their head at the puzzled store assistant and exit onto the street, breathing a sigh of relief. Were it to be another who purchased said shoes for the gentleman? Well, now that’s a different matter.

Silk dressing gown

There are many men who consider a dressing gown (not a towelling gown) to be an item of antiquated extravagance. In an age when most men are happy to answer the front door to strangers whilst wearing only their boxer shorts, a gown that was first designed to cover a gentleman’s ‘state of undress’ – (a shirt, waistcoat and trousers) – on the occasion of receiving visitors into his abode, is rather superfluous. Thinking over their rather busy and unfortunately inelegant day, men sneer into the windows of Harvie & Hudson, scanning the silken gowns draped over the mannequins thinking “Nice? Yeah. But when will I wear it?” If you happen to be bought one? Nearly every day. And you’d be the better for it.

Whilst browsing the website of Swaine Adeney & Brigg, a snooping colleague leaned over my shoulder and uttered a gasp of horror; “£300 for an umbrella?!” Coolly ignoring their hot-headed naivety I flicked to the silver handled version. “Yours” I said, taking a bite of BLT “for £825.” No one seems interested in investing in a decent umbrella these days. Aside from a neighbour, whose chestnut handled Brigg I had recently admired, a smart umbrella is something that many people like to dream of but few people wish to buy. “I’ll just lose it” they say “That’s £300 lost.” This coming, of course, from people who purchase iPhones, Blackberries, Mont Blancs and countless other items of ‘loseable’ profligacy. Every man wants one, few men have the courage to buy one.

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Watch Stereotypes

The Patek Philippe

The Patek man is one who has always been prepared to wait. He patiently saved for his Knightsbridge flat when paying next to nothing in rent for a shoebox in Hounslow. He made do with altered M&S suits for years until he had amassed sufficient funds for a couple of decent three-pieces from Henry Poole. And when some of his old school friends were out lunching in Michelin starred eateries that they could ill afford, flicking back their double-cuffs to dazzle Polish waitresses with their newly bought Rolexes, the Patek man sat by his desk eating his home made sandwiches, happily scrolling through the Excel spreadsheet of his ‘Patek fund’ which he had been steadily adding to, each month for the past five years. Other men had settled for less; they couldn’t wait for Knightsbridge and ended up in Battersea, they couldn’t wait for Savile Row and now bought at Aquascutum. The Patek man, proud of his self-restraint, wears his timepiece with care. However, he is still absent at the lunches, the dinners and the parties – he is saving up for a modified XK140.

The Breitling Chronograph

The Breitling man isn’t a brute, but he’d like to be. He has an expensive gym membership that includes a weekly session with an experienced boxing trainer. He shows off his cuts and bruises whenever he gets the chance. He craves a cool masculinity in his style; slick, made-to-measure grey or blue two piece suits (waistcoats, in his opinion, are far too fussy), white and blue shirts and dark grey ties. He yielded to a white linen pocket square fold a year ago. His chin is stubbled and his skin, though secretly moisturised by Zirh, is swarthy and always tastefully tanned. His Breitling SuperOcean Heritage timepiece is a masculine hunk of metal with a cold steel strap and a severe black face – contrasting with his tanned, moderately hairy wrists. When asked why he hadn’t selected the Omega Seamaster 007, which many considered to be the most appropriate watch for such a Bond fanatic, he laughed derisively and responded rather more seriously that Bond would “…never have worn a watch with his agent number flying around on the second-hand.”

The Vintage Rolex

The Vintage Rolex man spends as much time in his genteel Pall Mall club as possible; it’s the only place he knows that hasn’t dramatically changed since the 1930s. Though being a mere 42 years of age he never actually knew ‘the age of glamour’, still he has a strong affinity with the era that extends to his music choice (Al Bowlly), suits (vintage Savile Row), shoes (always co-respondents) and even his watch, a vintage Art Deco Rolex. Unlike some others, the Vintage Rolex man actually uses his timepiece. When it hits seven, he makes his way to the bar from the reading room and orders a dry martini – a drink he forced himself to like when he first saw ‘It Happened One Night.’ It is not the only watch he owns (his wealthy family once bought him a Vacheron Constantin and he inherited a rather vulgar Rado from a doting uncle) but it is the only one he wears. Consequently, he has to wait and browse the jewellery emporiums whilst the helpful vintage Rolex specialists in the Burlington Arcade service his treasured timepiece.

The Girard-Perregaux ‘Jackpot’ Tourbillon

The GP Tourbillon man is barely 25 and yet he was born to the kind of Astorian wealth that makes mere multimillionaires twice his age wince in envy as he draws up alongside them in his father’s priceless 1961 Ferrari 250 tapping his hand on the wheel, revealing a ‘complication’, worth nearly half a million pounds, that is part Swiss ‘haute-horologie’, part Las Vegas swank. He rolls up the cuffs on a suit that was ‘personally’ designed by Karl Lagerfeld and pushes the pedals with a one-off pair of Yamamoto trainers that he bought at auction for £8,000. This is how the young, entitled and foreign born billionaire likes to do things – individualism with a twist of pop culture cheek. He shuns his father’s recommendations on a career with his metals company, opting instead to back his poker playing friends in worldwide tournaments. He chooses not to occupy his allotted bedroom suite at the family residence in Kensington Palace Gardens but instead, much to his father’s bemusement, shacks up at a huge funky penthouse in Shoreditch where he entertains his few London-based Princeton friends with high stakes poker tournaments (he himself, despite his passion, is a dangerously poor player) and rare wine tastings (with bottles looted from his father’s cellar.)

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