The Fabric Lapel Flower

One of the best things about a blog that appeals to an international audience is that it enables education and sharing of particular customs of a country. The emailed questions and commentary often begin with an observation of national differences; “It seems in England that you…” , “Here in Germany, we…”, and are followed by an analysis of cultural and sartorial distinctions between Blighty and whichever land the commentator hails from; effecting a diplomatic dialogue that is based on sharing and understanding of which the United Nations would be most proud.

One recent comment related to a tradition of the United Kingdom and Commonwealth countries in adorning lapels with paper poppies throughout October and early November. One of the posts made during this month featured a paper poppy and prompted a reader to ask where I had found what he had innocently considered was a ‘red boutonniere.’ The really interesting part of this story was not the question itself, nor was it my thorough but dull explanation of the tradition but what the reader provided in response: lapel flowers from J and HP Clothing.

Though I have always preferred real flowers for buttonholes, I had often considered artificial flowers for days when the vases in the house were empty, particularly as I had managed to get so much use out of a velveteen paper rose that came with a box of Godiva chocolates. I had noticed a fabric buttonhole in the lapels of one of Rose Callahan’s recent photography subjects on The Dandy Portraits and was struck by its remarkable resemblance to a real flower; only on very close inspection can you see the rough edges of the ‘petals’ are in fact frayed fabric.

J and HP Clothing buttonholes are not intended to be as realistic. Many designs are polka dot, striped or checked. Secondly, the finish of the ‘flower’ is thicker, the fabric is not translucent at the edges and only a man at more than 10 paces would be fooled into thinking a carnation had been snipped for the benefit of your lapel. However, this is part of their charm and appeal. I have encountered many men who adorn their lapel with a multitude of decorative pieces; badges, pins and corsages. These colourful fabric flowers are of similar appeal in that they add art without artifice. Made from cotton and secured to the lapel by, that’s right, a button, they offer an alternative or an addition to that other occupier of the suit jacket’s upper left quadrant, the pocket square.

A Formal Question (or Two)

They don’t call it the party season for nothing. As soon as November is all but over, we turn our minds to the blinding glitter and deafening din of December; the month to end all months, the ‘holiday season’, the office parties, the annual balls and the benefits. As a warrior turns to his armour, the December party goer turns to their wardrobe.

And sometimes, they turn to others.

I have already received two anxious enquiries from readers regarding evening wear that need to be dealt with.

“I have a black tie ball coming up but I have recently bought a vintage tailcoat - like yours - and was wondering whether I could wear it with a black or white bow tie instead of a shorter jacket? What do you think?”

The purist’s answer to this is, of course, “absolutely not.” Invitation dress codes should be adhered to and many purists would claim that a white tailcoat worn to such an occasion is as incorrect as a hoody and sweatpants. However, I am not much of a purist. I would probably wear black tie if it was stipulated on the invitation, but if it simply asked for ‘Evening Dress’, I might dust off the vintage tails, purely because they don’t get much of a run out.

The second part of the question is also one of taste; the purist would suggest that a black bow tie worn with tails is out of the question. However, the chances of being mistaken for a waiter in an age when most staff carrying drinks wear plain black shirts are slim. The conundrum is this; should our hero shun the code and wear full formal evening dress (white bow tie, tails), should he strut around in tails whilst wearing a black bow tie, in a nod to the dress code or should he, as the purists demand, discard the tails and white bow tie and dress with a short jacket and black bow tie? As the middle option is half-hearted, I would champion the first.

“I need a favour. I am going to a black tie party but I was wondering what your views on pocket squares are?

I normally wear one with suits but I tried a white linen one with my dinner jacket and it looked way too stark against the black. Should I wear a black one? Or a colour (red)? Or can I not wear one at all?”

This is definitely a question of taste. Most men who wear pocket squares everyday would probably wear one with black tie to avoid that awkward feeling of ‘nakedness’, but I can understand this point of view; with an immaculate black tie ensemble, a white pocket square can look rather incongruous and a little untidy. A black square adds texture and is certainly more subtle, but it will be difficult to notice in low light. A red or burgundy puff is an excellent idea, not least because it adds a degree of colour to the outfit. Some say the last option, not adding a pocket square at all, is actually the ‘correct’ option, proven by the fact that some vintage formal eveningwear does not feature the breast pocket.

My loose rule with formal wear is if I wear a buttonhole, I won’t wear a square – and vice versa; otherwise, I feel my jacket is too busy. With white tie it tends to be a buttonhole, with black tie it tends to be a square. I would say that if I thought of wearing a buttonhole with black tie, I would leave the breast pocket empty.

The question is dear readers, what do you think?

Versace Loves H&M

There was something rather sad about the way Donatella Versace introduced the latest designer collaboration with the high street giant H&M. Normally, these collaborations are mutually beneficial affairs; the Giant sprinkles a little designer magic on their wares and rubs their hands gleefully as the queues form around the block; the Designer stands by their side counting the cash from the brief marriage, monitoring the crowds of fashionistas paying homage to their spring-up temples.

This time, there was something peculiar about the Designer’s place at the party. Though, again, this collaboration appears to be an unmitigated financial success, the hints of desperation in Donatella Versace’s words, and the state of Versace itself, have dulled the effect of the magic. On a grey and gloomy day, the daughter of Gianni Versace stumbled into the London flagship of the world’s second mightiest clothing retailer and muttered lines about the “new generation” of people opening up to Versace, selling to “different markets” and, bizarrely, posing for pictures with patient shoppers and informal eBay retailers.

The men’s collection is typically extravagant and gloriously tasteless; you shouldn’t expect any less from Versace. Pink suits, Greek key, sunbursts, leopard print; it was Gianni Versace’s greatest hits. Though Versace may be satisfied that legions of men turned out for the London opening, they should be wary; this was not a sign of mass appeal. As well as the thousands who were sent to collect or help girlfriends and wives with the 10 minute hauls, many were eBay merchants looking to spin a profit on that most cherished condition of retail; ‘Sold Out.’ There were certainly likely to be male fans true to the aesthetic and experimental label enthusiasts willing to give it a go, but these were few and far between.

Versace is looking ever more like the loud drunk at the party who refuses to go home. It hasn’t changed its stripes – literally – and even Donatella herself made wistful references to the glory of the 1990s, when excess and Versace were riding a high wave. Re-introducing the masses to the sort of clobber that looks like the aesthetic visualisation of the fall of the Roman Empire is apposite and yet extremely ill-timed. It is true that a lot of people like to have their “little bit of designer”, something H&M uses to maximum effect. In fact, many people buy things they don’t even like, particularly when they only have 10 minutes to make up their mind. However, the only long term beneficiary can be the Giant, and not because associations with a cheap, high street brand affect the Designer’s standing in the rarefied world of high fashion, but because the frenzied joy on purchasing ‘designer’ wares is short lived, soon forgotten and often regretted.

The Daily Mail’s headline, “Donatella Versace greets desperate shoppers” was wrong. It was the other way around.

Rare Moment: Velvet Waistcoat

It is comforting to see that season after season, year after year waistcoats still adorn the mannequins in stores up and down the high street. So much for the fashionistas who predicted several years ago that waistcoats were a brief phenomenon; as far as today’s shoppers are concerned, they have never been more desirable. A waistcoat is an elegant, flattering and warm addition to a suit and this practical edge has clicked with purchasers who are looking for more than something that’s “a bit trendy.”

However, it is not only the ‘matching waistcoats’ that have caught the eye; odd waistcoats are becoming less, er, odd and people are using them in very different ways and for different looks. Some are using them as a foil to a weekender outfit, others as a point of interest on a metropolitan suit and all different types of colour, pattern and material are appearing. One which caught my eye recently – and which I simply had to try out – was the velvet waistcoat.

When trying it on with my friend, I marked his frowning surprise at the mere existence of the product; “A velvet…waistcoat?” he said, as I slipped it on for size. I myself was not to be phased by the comment. It might be unexpected, a little rare but that was the point; doing something different was always of interest to me and a velvet waistcoat seemed the ideal addition to my little collection. I remembered seeing them worn by Dickensian rogues in Sunday evening period dramas with frock coats and stove pipe hats and it seemed to me to be a touch extravagant; an ideal starting place for any item that seeks a permanent home in my wardrobe.

Though many would mark this down as an ‘evening only’ garment, I foresaw many occasions for it, despite being jet black and the perfect contrast to Barathea wool and ribbed silk lapels. On the mannequin in store, it was displayed splendidly contrasting with a light grey jacket and a check shirt. However, I saw it being deployed primarily as an odd waistcoat with my collection of grey, waistcoat-less suits; a remarkably fine texture to contrast with wool flannel and silk ties.

Then my mind wandered from it being used with a grey tweed jacket, a check woollen tie and coloured cords to unity with a burgundy velvet jacket, white shirt and bow tie for club dinners and then with jeans, a cord jacket and paisley neckscarf for a casual artisan ensemble. For such an unusual, unexpected item, it was proving to be something of great potential and adaptability. I anticipated its first outing excitedly as I waited in the queue to purchase; I just had to remember to visit Liberty for replacement buttons.

Sartorial Love/Hate: Crocodile Shoes

It is always an entertainment when I observe the reactions of my less sartorially inclined friends to the prices of bespoke and designer clothing. Their responses are usually a loud and rather alarming repetition of my answer, with an added note of incredulity, and, if the cost is severe, this is followed by another, louder repetition and sometimes a generous helping of expletives, eye-rolling and head-shaking.

One of my old friends - a man who is ill acquainted with clean underwear, let alone a top-stitched lapel – was stunned into uncharacteristic silence when I told him that if he wanted a bespoke suit for his wedding, it would cost him, at the very least, the better part of £1000.

When I told a friend that the pair of crocodile shoes in the shop window, at £1,100, were peanuts in comparison to the £3,000-4,000 they would cost bespoke, he started so suddenly and with such an apprehension of violence that I thought I would be thrown through the glass. “What the HELL?! Four THOUSAND pounds?! For a pair of SHOES?!” His astonishment, though sudden, was hardly unexpected. You are talking about, I informed him, the Krug of shoes; the Beluga of bespoke. A pair of rare, animal skin shoes that will last you years and will probably be the most comfortable thing you own. “They are really” I whispered, as we trundled on “the king of shoes.”

His opinion could not have been more contrary. Such a large sum of money was a ludicrous amount to spend on any shoes, but crocodile shoes were, to him, unattractive. “I can understand” he began, as he calmed himself “why those Berluti shoes were so expensive, they were like art, but those crocodile things?! They were awful!”

It did not take me long to establish that not even a price of £70 would persuade my friend to plump for the pleasure of wearing out a pair of crocs. The sheer cost of the raw material and the craftsmanship in creating the shoes was irrelevant; they were ugly and his snap judgment was that gentlemen only bought them to “show how much money they could spend.” I ventured that though this may be true for a number, there were many gentlemen who wanted the fascinating aesthetic of croc skin shoes, which was, unsurprisingly, met with derision.

“In any case” my friend concluded “it’s not exactly fair is it? Killing an animal like a crocodile for a pair of shoes.” This last point I did not venture to contradict; no matter where the skin is sourced, how the animal is killed, or whether the skin is simply a byproduct, many people will object to the killing of such an animal for the vanity of fashion.

I personally rather like crocodile skin shoes and not for the dubious ‘high status’ they afford the wearer, but because they have a unique character and exoticism that is unusual in footwear; a world in which a two-tone dye on calf skin is usually as ‘different’ as it gets. The legendary Francis Bown bought his bespoke crocodile shoes at Cleverley as it was “a question of beauty…these shoes constitute one blow against the scruffiness of the age.” And yet, to me, they do seem to have a slight scruffiness, a raw, animal, natural aesthetic that is quiet unlike the austere refinement of calf leather. It is probably this quality, as well as the extravagant price tag, that tends to divide observers into those who adore, and those who despise.