The Dandy is Back

Dandies, according to the most recent publication of L’Uomo Vogue, are back. In fact, the Italian men’s fashion bible is so confident of their return and their reinstatement at the upper end of fashionable society that they devoted nearly an entire 450 page issue to the dandy renaissance; Robert Downey Jr was pictured larking around in cravats, monocles and top hats, Matthias Schweighöfer in dandific and bizarre ensembles and positions at a verging-on-seedy outdoor location and even Zinedine Zidane managed to look genteel and overtly elegant in a velvet evening jacket with an enormous bow tie.

Dandies fell out of favour in the twentieth century. After the excess of the 1890s, the frightful and catastrophic Great War and the gradual rise of the simply-attired proletariat, sympathy and celebration of dandified men had begun to wane. King Edward VIII, the Duke of Windsor post abdication, was the ‘last gasp’ of the Establishment dandy-world. A century after the demise of one of the most fashion conscious and great spending monarchs, George IV – a man who relied on the sartorial advice of the dandy of dandies, Beau Brummell – it seemed the world had had enough of a style that seemed at odds with the concerns and ideals of the future. Throughout much of the twentieth century, the dandy was an awkward and often ridiculed figure – a man who dwelled, unhappily or happily, in the underworld of the planet’s great cities.

The tenor of this collection of articles appeared to be a celebration of dandies; a coup of marketing that sold the concept to a wider, fashion-driven audience. Despite this apparent comprehensiveness, one might read all 450 (or make that 150 – advertisements you know…) pages of this bulky volume and not be any clearer about what a dandy actually is.

Some people regard flowery, effete gentlemen who adopt bright and extremely decorative clothing as dandies; others disagree and opt for the fastidious and immaculately attired. And others suggest that a modernity, through an acknowledgment of fashions and a revolutionary creativity, is the true mark of the dandy. None of them, and yet all of them, are correct.

Dandies are fortunately free from the constraints of pigeon-holing; an inelegant and unnecessary practice. Since dandyism relies on creativity and evolution, many would align with the maxim that to define is to limit. In any case, a ‘dandy’ desirous of being referred to as such is rarely anything other than a poseur.

The Green Carnation Dandy

The Green Carnation Dandy is a relic of the late Victorian era; an era of monumental wealth and near-Roman excess. Art is at the centre of this Dandy’s world. As Coward’s brilliant lyric from Bitter Sweet explains; “We believe in Art, Though we’re poles apart From the fools that are thrilled by Greuze. We like Beardsley and Green Chartreuse.” The Green Carnation Dandy is to some rather like a fop sartorially, but for the cultivation of his poetic language and refined speech. Anthony Blanche adopted waterfall pocket squares, extravagant bow ties and striped jackets in the manner of a Macaroni, but his beautiful manners and personal refinements suggested dandyism. Likewise Oscar Wilde, who would often dress in outrageous fashions suggesting an utter rejection of the Beau’s code of a dandy: that a well-dressed man should not be noticed. The magnificent flamboyance of this Dandy is utterly conspicuous; he is very likely to use words merely for pleasant effect.

The Immaculate Dandy

The one Dandy who follows the Beau’s lead rather more closely is the Immaculate. An apt description as he does appear, when fully dressed, utterly untouched and almost waxwork in manifestation. Hercule Poirot and Andrea Sperelli are excellent examples of this type; the very picture of an intimidating personification of symmetry. Exquisitely tied bows and ties, flawlessly starched shirts and shoes ‘shined to reflection.’ Empirically, he would always be considered, at the very least, well-dressed. Modern proponents of this style do tend to remain faithful to classic, and often archaic, items of dress. Art is certainly important to the Immaculate but fashion is usually irrelevant. Decoration is rather more controlled than that of the Green Carnation Dandy and usually more discreet.

The Modern Dandy

The Modern Dandy is very likely to be the personification of a smartly dressed follower of fashion; unlike the Immaculate, the Modern will consider and favour trends. Where the Green Carnation Dandy adopts a velvet jacket, buttonhole and silk cravat, and the Immaculate a starched shirt, bow tie and 1930’s suit, the Modern might opt for skinny denim with initialled slippers, and an unbuttoned Byronic white linen shirt with a smoking jacket. The juxtaposition of different styles, and different periods, is simply not an issue for the Modern. He likes taking risks and enjoys the success of his experimentation. Lapo Elkann, whose undeniable creativity has produced some fabulous and peculiar results, is the paradigm of this type.

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Make Berluti Your Fifth Pair. Part 2: Design

This is the continuation of a debate begun in a previous posting. To see that post, click here.

There are two important points to note about these commentators, though. The first concedes that he wears his Berluti shoes relatively rarely, as shoes for a special occasion and generally for evening wear. They are therefore not on a heavy rotation and rarely receive a full day’s use. He admits they are a little delicate, as many fine things are, and should be treated as such.

This suggests to me that while Berluti makes a fine pair of shoes, they should not be the second or third pair you buy. Get the basics first, your essential black oxfords and chocolate derbys – the shoes you will wear to work, the shoes you will wear more than once a week.

Then consider Berluti as something special. For you this may mean they are your fifth pair of high-end shoes. For these commentators I rather suspect they are their ninth or twelfth.

The second point is that the more critical Berluti customer still owns a pair, and without regret. Despite his reservations about the quality of the construction, he is happy he bought a pair and would do so again. This is true of almost all detractors of Berluti that I have seen: they still love the pair they own.

This reinforces the impression of Berluti as an exception, a treat. No matter how many great pairs of solidly-built English shoes you own, a little bit of moon-painted frippery will get you eventually (Berluti famously claims that the patinas on some of its shoes are painted by the light of the moon, enhancing their effect. Rubbish, of course, but it all adds to their frankly very successful PR mythology.)

The second point also shows that there is more than one way to judge a pair of shoes. Edward Green and John Lobb are generally considered to be among the best-constructed shoes available. But some of the designs leave me a little cold. I own a pair of Oundle monk-fronts on the 888 last from Edward Green – a long look with a chiselled toe. But the more conservative lasts, such as 202, just seem stumpy to my eye. The same comment has been made about some Vass shoes – they are wonderfully made but you’d never want to put them on your feet.

At some point, you pay for design. With Berluti, this is a large portion of what you pay for. Some of the designs are just horrible (Rapieces-Reprises) and some are gorgeous (Piercing). But Olga is famed for pushing the envelope on design, with new shapes, engraving, personalised tattoos and chunky rubber soles. Many of her innovations, like the brogueing on wholecuts, have now been copied by several other designers.

In conclusion, buy Berluti as an extravagance and buy it for its design. They’re well-made (I don’t believe the rumours about basic construction being done in China today) but they won’t hold up too well after several trips to the pub, or after a few English winters of cold slushy rain.

I’m more a fan of Pierre Corthay these days. But more of that in the next posting.

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Coloured Socks

As I was hurriedly dashing to and fro on a recent afternoon, negotiating my way through armies of tourists on the little side streets of the West End, I spotted a smartly dressed man reclining in his aluminium chair outside a particularly insalubrious looking establishment in Soho. A coffee cup, stained and empty, sat on the table in front of him and he had affected the position of reverie; leaning back into his chair, his legs crossed at the knee and his head thrown back against the top of the chair providing him with a view of a changing sky and the grotty upper floors of unkempt London buildings.

I noticed particularly a colourful item of clothing he happened to be wearing. It was not his thick, golden silk tie or his bright pink linen pocket square. Nor was it his cool navy linen blazer that was draped artfully over his shoulders. It was his pair of emerald green socks that shined with magnificent phosphorescence next to his burnished walnut brogues. This image of green clad ankles was vividly arresting. I would soon encounter other gentleman, of little note sartorially speaking, whose ankles were clad in more predictable blacks and dark greys and since I had seen two of the most resplendent and well-decorated ankles in London, it was all rather dull. I came to the conclusion that coloured socks are not only acceptable, but actually preferable; if the occasion allows it, a colourful flash of lower-leg is dazzling.

Red

It is not unusual to see gentlemen, particularly well-dressed elderly gentleman, wearing burgundy socks. They are commonly found amongst the post-prandial recliners in the libraries of Pall Mall clubs, worn with a conservative charcoal chalkstripe and chocolate Oxfords. However, I have also seen blood red socks worn, rather nattily, with seersucker suits and also with washed denim; the dramatic red draws the eyes to the ankles. It’s chic but also rather daring.

Golden yellow

I happened to be tuning in to the opinions of a former Prime Minister and, whilst he was not by any means remarkable in dress, his socks – of a rich, golden yellow colour normally seen on Van Gogh paintings – were outstanding. Whilst red is eyecatching and a little cavalier, golden yellow seems to convey an aristocratic superiority, particularly when worn with blue or navy suits. A man’s ankles are glorified in such manacles of gilt; putting one in mind of the gleaming sandles of the messenger of the gods, Hermes.

Sky blue and purple


Of the trio of colours suggested, sky blue is certainly the more restrained. However, such a colour still looks magnificent with white buck shoes and a khaki coloured linen suit for more casual, leisure oriented days. It is certainly a spring and summer colour of sock, reflecting the glorious azure of a warm afternoon sky. Winter greys, dark browns and blacks do not flatter these socks; they look a little lost amongst the gloom. However, a winter equivalent might be a glorious lilac or purple, both of which look absolutely regal with a wide pinstripe navy suit.

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Make Berluti Your Fifth Pair. Part 1: Construction

Many people a sartorial bent idolise Berluti shoes. And well they may. Olga Berluti designs beautiful footwear that stands out for its sleek lines and subtle patinas. But there are many questions over the quality of its construction.

Let’s start with the certainties. Berluti shoes, like many made in Italy (they are constructed in the Stefano Bi factory outside Ferrara, though designed in France), are Blake constructed. This means that the shoe’s upper is folded underneath itself and sewn directly onto the sole of the shoe, unlike Goodyear welts which involve sewing the upper onto a new ridge of leather, before attaching that to the sole.

Most English shoes and their American heirs (Alden, Allen Edmonds) use Goodyear welts. They make the shoe more water resistant and tougher. They also make it easier and quicker to resole the shoe. So Berluti shoes are less likely to stand up to rain and general dampness.

They can be resoled, but it requires a Blake-specific machine. Cobblers that use these can be hard to find, but then if you’re going to pay Berluti prices for shoes you should really send them back to the manufacturer to get resoled and rebuilt to maximise their longevity.

The advantage of Blake construction is that the sole can be cut a lot closer to the upper, leaving less of a lip and making the design sleeker. The width of a sole around the upper varies hugely among Goodyear-welted shoes, but none are quite as thin as Blake-made models.

Blake shoes are not necessarily of inferior quality. Although the technique was originally created to make it easier to produce shoes in a factory, and some very poorly made Blake shoes are churned out in Italy, the top quality lines are expertly made.

But they are more delicate. Quite how delicate Berluti shoes are is a matter of some debate. Some say they have worn them for years without any major problems. Others report that they wrinkled badly and did not hold up well to continued use.

In an online forum intended to discuss such matters, one Berluti enthusiast said “I have been a customer since 1998. I believe their shoes are very well made, there are a couple of pairs I have worn for a long time and they are holding up beautifully.”

A more critical customer pointed out: “One issue with Berluti ready-to-wear is the use of Venezia leather. According to Berluti PR, this leather allows for the beautiful patina available on Berluti shoes. Unfortunately, it is also quite thin and delicate, which means that they can look very wrinkled after some wear.”

The conclusion to this debate will appear here later in the week…

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‘Would I Look Good in This?’

One of the things I am always aware of, being overly concerned with my appearance and wardrobe, is my ability – or indeed, inability as the case may be – to vary personal style. It’s certainly a good thing to have what one might refer to as a ‘uniform’; a safe combination of shirt, jacket, tie, trouser and shoe that you can always rely on but the risk with such uniformity is that you tend to avoid experimentation – as well as risking the affliction of peace of mind with sartorial boredom.

Many people are capable of identifying themselves with a particular mode or style: “It’s nice but it’s just not me…”, “I’d love to be able to wear that, but I have my way of doing things.” They appear content in the knowledge that contentment is illusory; after all, we’d all love to be able to do many things. I wouldn’t mind winning Wimbledon or discovering the cure for a widespread disease but I recognise my own limitations and the fact that those things are not going to happen is something I accept.

And the grass, so they say, is generally greener on the other side of the fence. Whilst the public lavish attention and adoration on the celebrity, the celebrity constantly seeks the shade, the private life; unable to comprehend the desire the anonymous have for a life in the bright lights of fame. A man of considerable style might pace the streets with apparent confidence but a glance in the direction of an alternatively attired chap might set the wheels of his mind whirring for the possibility of change.

In style, confidence and self-security are vital components. Without them the supposed man of style is a poseur and pretender; a charlatan who hasn’t conquered the infuriating tendency of fashionistas to tinker and tamper. However, it must also be recognised that the very essence of personal style is self-discovery. Experimentation and dabbling are important aspects of this discovery – the man of one suit might not lack funds, but imagination.

Maturation also plays a role. Roger Federer admitted he was always the shy teenager, forever in sports clothing, until he grew into his hidden passion for clothing, making friends with the movers and shakers of the New York fashion set, revealing his ‘embarrassing’ joy in shopping for clothes. Many men go through this period, some earlier than others, and some enter it without realising quite what they are letting themselves in for.

I believe in the idea of personal style; I believe it is detectable and identifiable. Or at least it should be. My fear of remaining too ‘uniform’ is a symptom of my interest in fashion. I am confident in the clothes I wear, and the clothes I choose to buy, but I am often afraid that I am only touching a percentage of the ‘style’ that is available to embrace. I fear that the ‘uniform’ has become my identity; someone recently complimented me on my usefulness in emotional situations as I always decorated my jacket pocket with a silk square. I was somewhat nonplussed. The very idea of predictability can either crack sartorial confidence, or it can strengthen and galvanise.

Naturally confident, even arrogant individuals will see this as an acknowledgment of their signature; Lagerfeld for example would have no problem in being identified as the monochrome man. However, this places external recognition and honour at the heart of one’s style and that can never do; if you dress for someone other than yourself, it is strikingly obvious that you are doing so.

I think the fear of wanting something that you do not have and being someone you are not is pointless; no collection, no matter how large, is ever complete or the owner satisfied. Imelda Marcos is an illustration, albeit an extreme one, of the minutiae in differentiation the collector can note. Such a collector never stops wanting what they do not have and acknowledging that weakness is important; ‘travelling’ in all it’s forms is a favourite pastime of the human being and we never seem to tire of it. The evolution of your wardrobe is just as remarkable as the evolution of your personality and at times, one often reflects the other.

The personal desire of variety is natural and, though I have issued rather stiff words on ‘confidence in personal style’ and written on achieving a peace with your own gut-understanding of ‘what style means to you’, the reality is that curiosity, though it has been distributed in different quantities, is in all of us.

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