Autumn’s vanguard arrives annually the week following Labor Day in the form of meticulously contrived and photographed look books. I receive scads of the things, always feigning annoyance as I pry them from my mail slot. The mail lady sees through my charade though; I forgo the wastepaper bin, tuck the goods and stiff-arm my way to the elevator bank. When I find the time, I indulge freely. It was Somerset Maugham who put it best: “I have not been afraid of excess: excess on occasion is exhilarating. It prevents moderation from acquiring the deadening effect of a habit.” An hour later, the effect is that of too much clotted cream. Except tweed and suede. For all the preaching classic menswear enthusiasts do concerning restraint and moderation, it is satisfying to swim in the exuberant arranging, layering and posing of the expert stylist gone wild with quality menswear.

The unrivaled champion of the look book is Paul Stuart, the American clothier and haberdasher founded in New York in the late 30s. This will not be so surprising for anyone who has visited the shops; they are monuments to Anglo-American style groaning with ancient madder, cashmere and tweed. This year’s look book collects the finest examples in the Smithsonian Institution where forlorn and bearded models contemplate the John Singer Sargent exhibition. What Paul Stuart does so well is make the implausible feel natural. An olive cashmere flannel suit with double breasted waistcoat is impossible, until one sees it worn by a man deep in thought over an American masterpiece. The piece-de-resistance, however, is a vicuña topcoat in an exploded glen plaid with velvet collar. The model is accessorized with peccary gloves, whangee umbrella and a velour fedora. You know what they say about nothing exceeds etc. Incidentally, the setting isn’t random; Paul Stuart is currently building a store in DC—not far from the Smithsonian.

Further South, in Charleston South Carolina, is the home of a menswear brand that I have never fully understood: Ben Silver. I can’t speak to the quality of the ready-to-wear offerings, but I assume it is well enough if men still patronize. It is the styling I struggle with. On the Anglo-American spectrum, Ben Silver caroms wildly, from a vast selection of actual regimental ties (that might cause offense if worn by a civilian) to ties with embroidered jockeys—the sort of thing one might imagine Rodney Dangerfield wearing after hitting it big on race seven. Their Autumn look book is soulless, or, more accurately, headless: the models are photographed from the neck down which displays the clothes nicely, but removes the moody human element that makes paging though Paul Stuart’s effort so rewarding. The compositions are nice though, and bravo for the double breasted tweed on page ten.

Finally, Bloomingdales. I admit some of the pleasure derived from these look books stems not from admiration, but from that baser quality of the clothes enthusiast: smugness. For those readers who might not be aware, it is currently said that we are experiencing a renaissance in menswear—that the self-conscious drabness that some say marked the first decade of this millennium is giving way to a happier, classic aesthetic. This sounds terrific, but the execution is often questionable. In many instances, this rediscovery of masculinity boils down to a single stroke: the use of glen plaid. That the trousers are skin tight, or the jackets cropped higher than my wife’s matters little; the visual reference of the pattern is what counts. The other tool in the marketing arsenal is narrative. Models appear as athletes, eco-warriors and, my personal favorite, off-the-grid woodsmen. This last trope has a fashionably attired model traipsing through the forest in trousers that would split within the first few minutes of a proper hike and conspicuous work boots with electric blue lug soles. His companion is a white wolf; not to worry, the model hasn’t enough flesh on him.

The fundamental principle behind all look books is this: ready-to-wear clothing requires fantasy. A photograph of a blazer leaves most men cold. Worn by a handsome model paddling his date around in a skiff, Champagne picnic awaiting in the near distance, the blazer enters some other part of the brain, namely that ruled by desire. Whether I care for the clothes or not is irrelevant; I appreciate the fun stylists are having with the narrative, however silly some of the results are. In an attempt to gain more control, I have moved away from ready-to-wear in recent years. While acting as one’s own designer can be very satisfying, it can also be a lonely hobby. Perhaps the look book is less a guilty pleasure then; maybe my attraction is just that old sentiment envy, urging me to wonder whether the cashmere is really softer on the other side.