Edgar Allan Poe, in relation to the way his fellow Americans furnished their homes, offered this broad criticism:

This vintage Apparel Arts diagram attempts to chart color and texture for each component of male dress, and, in doing so, makes a complicated matter even less clear.

“By a transition readily understood, and which might have been as readily foreseen, we have been brought to merge in simple show our notions of taste itself.”

His is a direct snipe at the inevitable materialism that grows alongside a moneyed place—the grotesqueness of unchecked purchase-power. Poe identifies the English alone in distinguishing beauty from mere magnificence, an ability that originates with the aristocracy (for whom nobility is a higher goal than wealth). Off course, Poe never likely anticipated the ease with which materialism as an end in of itself might diffuse; even without the internet, a costly bauble is far easier to acquire than the sound taste to avoid its conspicuous display. And, really, what corners of this shrinking world remain immune?

Who knew Poe felt so passionately about interior decoration? His Philosophy of Furniture, which first appeared in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine in 1840, goes on to describe an ideal room in crimson, gold and pale gray. It is softly lit and sparingly filled. One might describe it as modest, although that loaded term suggests a whiff of constraint rather than restraint. No--whether the owner of Poe’s room is able to sumptuously fill it or not is irrelevant; instead he pursues composition and harmony. These terms resonate with me, but perhaps because I am not an interior decorator, I prefer to consider Poe’s philosophy scaled down to clothing.

Composition seems to me a process of adding based upon context. Formality, season and activity establish context, with lesser roles played by company, forecast and location. Once in the neighborhood—say, a warm-weather wedding in a city—garments must be added together. A lightweight navy suit, a white shirt, a silver tie, black shoes. But consider the choices within each. Is the suit patterned? Is the shirt poplin, pinpoint or twill? Does the tie have figures or texture, the shoes laces or not? This to say nothing of handkerchieves, socks and cufflinks, a few of the common points at which poor decisions can quickly detract from the whole. The secondary sub-choices within categories seem small, but when viewed together, matter greatly to composition.

Harmony, then, emerges as a process of subtracting. In the casual analogue to the above example, imagine a cool-weather event in the suburbs that suggested to our same model corduroy trousers, a checked shirt, a knit vest, and a lightweight tweed jacket. He is tieless, and perhaps because of this, selects a handsome silk handkerchief for his jackets breast pocket. The forecast suggests drizzle so he takes a felt trilby along, and if it's inclement enough for a hat, why not a scarf and unlined gloves? All of these items, including his socks, are in autumnal hues, and yet, as he looks at himself before leaving, he sees the composition is awry. Harmony is still possible, but only after an offending hatband or handkerchief is dismissed, or some more invasive action is required, like the swapping of a busy shirt or jacket for something quieter. Rather than being thoroughly conceived of from the start, harmony is arrived at by removing noise.

The common factor between composition and harmony is in managing the variables. Simpler compositions and easier harmonies are achieved with fewer variables, but the trade-off is sophistication. The best dressers always have more happening than is immediately obvious—a solid that fractures to a self-pattern up close, a texture that emerges when within whispering range. Beware though; it is in the allure of hidden features that the greatest pitfall also lurks: novelty. Bright linings, mismatched buttons, contrasting thread—these and more might seem near relatives to the techniques of the advanced dresser, but where the former’s are subtle these are conspicuous. Worse, they are the unnecessary variables that complicate dressing—they are Poe’s elements of “show.”

Fifty shades, weights, textures, and, ultimately, effects of gray.