Rare Moment: Horizontally Striped Suit

One of the joys of bespoke clothing is the opportunity to do something truly individual, even original. When I once commissioned a shirt, I relished the opportunity of ordering a horizontally striped shirt – an eyecatching rarity these days – as I had always liked the idea of a ‘hooped’ chest and had begun to appreciate uncommon aesthetics in reaction to the dull uniformity I bear witness to each and every day. I had always thought that this was a step far enough; diagonal stripes on a shirt would be a pretentious disaster and would not flatter the aesthetic of the classic symmetrical human form and costume – with stripes, it was only the purely horizontal and the vertical that could seriously vie for elegance. And so, the horizontally striped shirt remained as my favourite example of doing something a little differently whilst avoiding vulgarity.

Months past, the seasons changed; and then I stumbled into a tailor’s workroom for a fitting where I saw, to my amazement, a creation that purists would consider gross sartorial blasphemy; a peak lapelled, ticket pocketed, horizontally striped suit. It sat there, amongst the ‘senior citizens’ choices, brash as anything, unaware of the rumpus it was causing. Despite being slightly disconcerted, I began to admire what was essentially an entertaining creation of whim. It was a beautiful risk taker, a daring thing that would doubtless have cars swerving and gentlemen stumbling as it moved through the metropolis.

It was, apparently, a paean to the audacious creations of the aptly named Tommy Nutter, who along with Edward Sexton dominated the Savile Row scene in the early seventies. Despite this historic dedication, the suit did not appear to be some Jagger-esque relic of the twentieth century’s seventh decade. Though a head turner, it also had an elegant presence that antiquated many of the more conventional suits lined up next to it. It was dynamic and rather dazzling; the kind of suit to wear to a garden party at Elton John’s. My only annoyance is that I did not get to see it worn by the lucky commissioner.

Naturally, one man’s meat is another man’s poison; I wouldn’t have to look very hard to find a gentleman who would think that such a violently unconventional use of a bespoke tailor is a sartorial abortion that requires the potential institutionalisation of the commissioner; “Fattening” they say when I mention my fondness for the horizontal stripe. This, they claim, is in contrast to the vertical stripe which slims a gentleman down. However, I am always wary of such dismissiveness; people that reject an alternative merely because it is an alternative rarely discover anything in life worth discovering. Though I do not currently have the funds for such fun, a horizontally striped suit has shimmered into view; a rare moment has inspired me to dream.

Brand Review: Herring Shoes

Buying ‘blind’ is not a pursuit for the faint of heart. In online shopping terms, there are degrees of ‘blindness’ – varying levels of knowledge about the product to be purchased that assure the purchaser. The best situation to be in is to be purchasing a product, say a pair of shoes, that you have already seen ‘in the flesh’ as it were; you know what the product looks like to the naked eye, so the pictures online need not be pored over or the description re-read with any degree of concern – if you were happy with what you saw, you probably will be when the shoes are delivered.

If however you haven’t seen the product in the flesh, and are not particularly trusting of marketing photography, you are buying with a degree of blindness; I have experienced this horror and have ended up paying a hefty postage for the return of unwanted items that did not live up to expectations. Ever since, I have been rather uneasy with buying ‘blind.’ However, a recent experience with Herring Shoes provided me with a rather different ‘blind’ experience.

Herring have two retail stores, one down in Devon and one in Herefordshire; both are too far away from London to merit a visit from myself. Herring also have an online boutique that retails shoes from the likes of Church’s, Barker, Loake, Cheaney, Trickers and Sebago, in addition to their own lines. However, whereas I can toddle down both Bond and Jermyn Street and see many of the other brands that Herring offers for sale online, I cannot see any Herring shoes; London does not know Herring.

While pleased that such shoes are clearly lacking in mass market appeal, I was considerably disgruntled that I could only view a photographic representation and not touch one of their shoes before purchasing – a purchase which might lead to disappointment and the loss of a small sum on returns. Despite this disappointment, I simply could not be deterred from the appeals of the product; Herring shoes are classically designed, Goodyear welted and honestly priced. They might not be as grand as some of the bespoke names often mentioned on this site, but they cater for men on a certain budget very well indeed.

Herring Shoes are helpfully divided into six main categories; the Classic Collection, the Premier Collection, the Graduate Collection, the Country Collection and the Italian Collection. The other helpful point about this categorisation is that it makes sense; the names signify the standard and style of the shoes therein. Hence, in the Graduate Collection one finds classic ‘straight out of University’ shoes priced for young, loan-repaying graduates; the Country Collection has a lot of brown brogues and substantial soles and the Premier Collection offers shoes of a higher category of design and material for a little extra. The pair I selected, some tan tassel loafers, were selected from the Classic Collection. Payment is simple and delivery (within the UK only) is free.

The packaging, as you can see from the photos above, was faultless. The shoes were boxed inside a cardboard box and hand delivered. Inside the shoe box, aside from the shoes, you could find a travel size shoe horn, tin of polish and travel bags for each shoe. For a delivery that did not cost me a penny, it was highly satisfactory. The most worrying thing about the purchase was the fit as it has been my experience that some shoe manufacturers have very different ideas about what a correct size 8 actually is. Relieved with the fit, I examined the shoes and the leather carefully, checking for flaws. My beady eye satisfied, I settled down to polish the shoes for the first time, happy in the knowledge that my next Herring purchase will not be one so affected by concern; this ‘blind buy’ had been a lesson.

Rare Moment: The Flecked Wool Suit

When I was trawling through the untidy racks at TopMan during a recent sale, I saw a suit in a fabric I had not seen since I had ventured into the loft at the old homestead many years ago when I was searching through my parents disused clothing for items of curiosity. Among the items of forgotten fashion I found, ransacking the hampers of garments from the last four decades of the twentieth century, was a suit in flecked wool; a dark grey with a textured pattern of white blimps. The suit in TopMan was almost identical in fabric, although rather different in cut; its reappearance was sadly only an accident of the high street store’s manufacture of 1980s nostalgia.

Flecked wool was not a 1980s invention, however its similarity to television static has earned it a closer connection with the era of televisual technology. Although it is difficult to find an exact history of the fabric’s origins, it has been in the swatch books of sartoria for nearly one hundred years as there are significant examples of flecked wool suits from the 20s and 30s that I have previously seen. The most popular period for the first ‘fashion’ flecked wool suits appears to be the 1950s. A recent viewing of Shutter Island, a psychological thriller set in the middle of the twentieth century, affirmed this view; Mark Ruffalo, chewing up the windswept scenery, wandered around in a trilby and a flecked wool suit.

It strikes me as a rather casual fabric, similar to tweed in texture and appearance. Younger people seemed to be rather averse to it, describing it as ‘rough’ and ‘looking like an old sack.’ I remember adopting such a viewpoint myself when all my clothing depended on trend – anything from the recent past was perversely horrible to my eyes; ‘It’s SO 80s!’ was a phrase that I was overly generous in distributing to worldly goods that did not meet my approval. Despite the fact that flecked wool was a fabric popular in the 1980s, I have somehow shaken off my dislike of it as I perceive the rough texture of the wool, and the rather distracting flecking, to be a perfect foil for smooth cotton shirts, rich silk ties and linen pocket squares.

I imagined the turned up flecked trousers flopping onto a pair of richly polished tan shoes, a pair of Wayfarers in the breast pocket of the jacket and a freshly ironed shirt underneath it all. There was something rather cool about it; something rather Gary Cooper.

The tragedy is that it isn’t much available anymore, at least not in ready-to-wear. I don’t imagine a huge amount of it is available at the tailors either as flecked wool is long out of vogue and it wouldn’t make sense to keep books of fabrics that just aren’t going to sell. When available, it is usually in a country colour such as a green or brown or in the more conventional town colour of mid-to dark grey. I think there is space in any gentleman’s wardrobe for this cool, characterful cloth.

Suit Mash Ups

It’s inevitable that a child, quite demonstrably informed by an adult not to do ‘something’, will eventually do ‘something.’ It should also come as no surprise that another adult, demonstrably informed by another adult not to do something, will rekindle that childlike curiosity and reaction to authority by doing the very thing they had been instructed not to do. Temptation wields a mighty force. For centuries, man has always sought to place his hand on Eden’s apple. I was told by my parents not to do many things, some of which I hadn’t even thought of myself. Their introduction, and apparent damnation in the eyes of people who had great authority over me, sparked something; ‘if it’s bad, it must be good for me’ I muttered to myself many a time in my rebellious youth.

I once visited a tailor who looked at me up and down, frowned and asked me where I got my clothing from. After informing him, he said; ‘Oh, so this is actually two suits? You’re wearing one suit’s trousers, with another suit’s jacket?’ Shrugging my shoulders in admittance, he shook his head with knowing disdain; ‘Shouldn’t mess around with your suits. Wear the matching trousers; don’t mess around trying to mix it up.’

I have always remembered his words, although I have never heeded them. I informed him coolly that contrasting trousers with jackets is actually an old phenomenon and that I liked the distinction between a lighter pair of trousers and a dark jacket, and vice versa. He informed me that only blazers should be worn with contrasting trousers, everything else should match.

As claustrophobic and unattractive a viewpoint to me as it was, it did educate me that some people disapprove of suit ‘mash ups’ – mixing trousers with jackets, wearing jackets with odd trousers and vice versa. Such people might look down upon a chap who finds, in the words of an acquaintance, ‘too much utility’ for a single suit. This sartorial sneering doesn’t really bother me as most of the fun in buying a suit is not rejoicing in its possibilities as a predictable one-piece but dreaming of the possibilities for experimentation – with a seersucker jacket in the summer, a velvet jacket in the winter, a cardigan or even a pair of jeans.

My light grey Prince of Wales check suit, for example, offers great possibilities for such mashing; as soon as I had bought it and worn it as a suit, I was considering the trousers and jackets as separates – a pair of white trousers and the Prince of Wales jacket in the spring, or perhaps a light blue linen jacket with the trousers in the summer; a woollen cardigan and the trousers for a simple Astaire-esque casual look, or a dark blazer with the Prince of Wales trousers, a silver tie and buttonhole for a modern ‘stroller’ ensemble. The titillation of the seemingly never-ending possibilities of a new acquisition is the reason why I enjoy clothing. I don’t enjoy the mashing merely because there is something vaguely rebellious about ignoring the established style sages who ward against such experimentation but because I like discovering that two items are worth more than their face value; the human delight in conjuring ‘value’ is utterly intoxicating.

The inherent risk with such mixing and matching is that, sometimes, a man gets it wrong. Ho hum. I find this happens mainly when there are no ‘anchoring’ items in an ensemble that make the ‘mashing’ look intentional; if you’re wearing, for example, different trousers with a suit jacket, I find it’s useful to use the accessories available to pull the trousers into the outfit. A complementary tie or pocket square will help. Secondly, I’d try to avoid pairing colours that are too close in the spectrum. I once saw a gentleman pair a dark grey jacket with a slightly lighter grey trouser that, instead of conveying a look of assuredness actually gave the impression he had either raided a charity store or had got dressed in the dark. If you are wearing garments of the same colour, it is important that the contrast is exaggerated; a dark grey should only be accompanied by a much lighter grey.

The Way You Wear Your Hat

We all know the lyrics conjured by Ira Gershwin, famously touching upon that aspect of headgear so often overlooked; the way a hat is worn. So out of touch are we with the practice of wearing a hat that many gentlemen forget that there is as much art in putting a hat on as there is in manufacturing it. During the time when everyone wore headgear, the man who stood out from the crowd generally wore a hat that was not only of the highest quality but also of the most individual and flattering aesthetic. Gentlemen reading these words may perceive this concern to be small beer; after all, how difficult can it be to wear a hat well?

If the few men who march around in fedoras and trilbies are anything to go by, it appears to be a problem for the majority. The assumption, it seems to me, is that a hat should do all the work. Some men merely plonk a hat on their head expecting a Bogart visage to appear in the looking-glass; hand-hat-head-front door seems to be the sequence in their minds. Unfortunately, a little more effort is required to achieve the best effect from an item of headgear. And this consideration of how a hat will appear should always be addressed at the milliners.

The way some gentlemen wear their trilbies, you’d think they’d bought their hat from a blind man and dressed in the dark; the brim is often flat, shapeless and dull, the profile utterly unremarkable. Their mistake is in believing that, merely by having a piece of felt on their heads, they are a pure example of bygone elegance. The shame of it is that if they’d paid more attention to the mirror at the milliners, they wouldn’t be in this situation.

When I try a hat on, I do so not only for size but for aesthetics; hats rarely look the same on two people, so a sensible amount of posing (and possibly a tasteful shopping partner) to determine whether a prospective item of headgear looks ‘right’ on a gentleman is vital. Wandering out into St James muttering to yourself that you simply ‘must have a Homburg’ at all costs is misguided; the Homburg looks a fright on certain people (those of narrower shoulder and shorter frames). Hats must be chosen and scrutinised with the utmost humility. The next thing you must do when you have found a flattering design that suits your face and build is to put it on correctly.

The aforementioned correctness isn’t to do with a dusty old rule, nor the dictat of some style sage but simply to do with the way the object appears; I wear driving and Gatsby caps a little to the side but I vary how much of my forehead I reveal depending on style. I think a slightly downward pointing peak on a flat cap looks more rakishly metropolitan, whereas a more upward pointing peak on a Gatsby, accompanied with a smile looks easy-going and bucolic – echoing a setting sun across a golden meadow. As minute as some might think these differences are out of context, in an outfit they can make all the difference.

If you watch certain film noir, there are characters who have a style of wearing trilbies and fedoras that is seen little nowadays; some fedoras are pushed back on the head with the brim pulled down over the eyes; some trilbies are worn jauntily, a la Mr Sinatra, revealing more of one side of the face than another; a few pinched hats are snap-brimmed with the characteristic flick up at the back brim and the downward pointing front brim. Rarely, in such pictures, are they worn without any consideration for the aesthetic of wearing a hat. For a hat, properly worn, is not an object merely to be secured to the temple, parallel to the brow; it is as much a stylistic expression as a stuffed pocket square, four-in-hand or a Club collar. When you try a hat on, be bold – express, be theatrical, try to frame yourself with the item; wearing a hat properly, as Frans Hals understood, is worthy of art.