Missing Link

The gold standard.

    It pains me to admit this, but precious cufflinks really do reek of overindulgence.  I realize needs differ amongst men, but if I wear a French cuff, it is only with a suit, and really only a more formal suit for those important, non-business occasions like weddings and charity events.  This is a narrow window, which perhaps explains the economic side of why I favor silk knots—the aesthetic one being that silk knots provide that soupçon of modesty that can bring a good composition into harmony.  Inexpensive or mildly decrepit accessories often have this effect, but I digress.  Precious cufflinks are difficult to justify.  

    This realization came particularly into focus a few weeks ago a when a good friend, who is getting married in May, asked me to help him navigate the vast market of cufflinks and/or dress sets.  Being a particular fellow himself, he had some ideas, but wanted a broader sense of what is appropriate and worthwhile.  I began compiling a list of links (the internet sort) to links (the cuff sort) that I thought worked, but quickly realized the results should be fractured in two—the merely correct and the truly fabulous.  The former featured links and studs made from gold, silver, onyx and pearl in masculine shapes and modest sizes.  Oh, but the other list!  It began innocently enough: agate, carnelian, jade—but very quickly spiraled out of control: white gold studded with sapphire, ruby cabochons, diamond encrusted rhodium.  It was not long before the twinkle of these rarities had mesmerized my own restrained senses.  My mother just happened to phone and I explained what I was up to, proposing that I wondered whether my friend ought not really splurge on something fabulous.  Her response: “You can’t show him those—he’ll look like a bloody riverboat gambler!”  I decided not to mention that the New Orleans wedding would be taking place a few steps from both river boats and casinos.  

Mother of Pearl studs complemented by sterling links.   

    The lesson is clear: extravagance won’t be ignored.  Not earth shattering, I realize, but certainly a significant maxim when considered within the context of classic menswear—a niche that usually rejects flash in favor of understatement.  But where is the line?  Onyx and mother of pearl are traditional and unimpeachable choices for formalwear, but how do these differ from other semi-precious materials?  The sense of occasion and infrequency with which formal links and studs are worn helps, but my main complaint with the jades, tiger’s eyes, carbuncles and whatever else haunts the dreams of aspiring Dorian Grays is color.  Its addition at the cuff is just one more data point with which to contend when getting ready.

    Alternatively, I’ve always thought plain gold adds just the correct level of warmth and richness to a cuff.  Gold, the color, is anything but neutral, but gold (Au) melts into its surroundings, anointing its wearer with the right level of soft glint.  Gold, unlike hunks of turquoise and cabochons of garnet, looks like it is supposed to be holding together a cuff.  This is especially true of simple designs—hexagonal placards, modest domes, ovals.  My personal grail is probably a curved barbell design with smooth, unadorned orbs at each end.  A little etching or engine turned texture is welcome, but anything more—and certainly anything novel, like a face or pair of six-shooters—and we are right back hustling rubes on the riverboat.

On Costumes

    Pity the fellow dressed as a pickle.  Did he not foresee that an inch of air-brushed latex would be stifling?  Or did he weigh the novelty of his gag against his tolerance for discomfort, and conclude that triumph always requires personal sacrifice?  I’m less generous than that; I bet he’s just not that creative.  Whatever the fault, I don’t begrudge the impulse.  Resorting to costume has, since antiquity, permitted a freedom from whatever propriety we feel bound to—which accounts for the dramatic spectrum of results, from tame to barely contained.  Past a certain age, though, men are wise to leave alone the purely silly (and usually uncomfortable) in favor of more nuanced attempts.  While I wouldn’t categorize costumes of this sort as cerebral, they do require some careful thought and crafty repurposing of clothes and accessories on hand.

    Ten or so years ago, I was invited to a splashy formal event that stipulated venetian masks.  I was talked into a rather well-made plaster number by a friend, a classic domino mask covering just my eyebrows, nose and temples.  The list of characters who have worn this shape (if not this particular Venetian design) is long, from Zorro to The Green Hornet and his sidekick Kato.  The above examples actually demonstrate another point about these nuanced styles of costume: one need not go overboard.  A domino mask worn with a black gaucho hat and pencil mustache is all it takes to clearly broadcast Zorro.  Along with their masks, The Green Hornet wore nothing more elaborate than a chesterfield topcoat and a trilby; Kato, a black chauffeur’s hat.

    Hats really offer the simplest solutions, but fedoras and trilbies are hardly the most evocative.  A deerstalker, tweed jacket and pipe instantly conjures Sherlock.  For the solemn-faced amongst us, Buster Keaton is a porkpie and three-piece suit away.  My favorite homburg-wearer is Poirot, Agatha Christie’s persnickety sleuth, but that’s a costume that takes more than a surface treatment.  The bowler or derby is the richest source of character costumes, perhaps because this stiffened style of hat is both an icon of Englishness and, as society journalist and author Lucius Beebe famously put it, “The hat that won the West.”  Each Halloween I see as many convincing John Steeds from The Avengers as I do Butch Cassidys—both famous bowler wearers.  The best bowler oriented costume I’ve witnessed, though, was by an art student in a dark Mackintosh, white shirt, red tie and black bowler.  It had me scratching my head until he brought the green apple he had impaled on a stick up to his face.

    Umbrellas, canes and other hand-held appurtenances are often required in conjunction with the hats and masks mentioned above.  In addition to a bowler and a white shirt, those aspiring Alex’s from A Clockwork Orange will need a blackthorn cane.  To pull off Monstresor and Fortunato from Poe’s The Cask of Amontillado, in addition to venetian masks, a pair of friends will need a half-drunk bottle of wine with the neck sheared off and a torch.  Keep in mind, though, that the real advantage to costumes of this sort is the ease with which an evening out can be navigated, so anything more elaborate than a few signifiers of character is self-defeating.  

    There does lurk a danger in this approach, however.  In conceiving of and composing a costume, one might discover that it all comes together rather too easily.  This is an indication that one’s wardrobe runs a tad to the theatrical.  I would be personally concerned if little more than adjusting an accent was needed to pull off a pitch-perfect Poirot or Sherlock, an Al Capone or Oscar Wilde.  Costumes really should read as just that, but it’s a problem if one’s ordinary clothes obviously do too.  This, in some ways, is as bad as dressing as a pickle.

Taken by the Lapel

A carnation, surgically removed from its horrific bindings and unnecessary embellishments..  

    My wedding went off without so much as a hiccup—at least that is what the official line is.  Few know, however, that at the very precipice, as the last grains of bachelorhood tumbled through the narrows of the hourglass, a calamity loomed that might have been too omen-like to proceed with the ceremony had the groom been superstitious.  My boutonnière, despite exhortations and assurances to the contrary, arrived a large and unwieldy thing.  It had no chance of fitting its girth through the buttonhole of my tuxedo.  And with no time for last minute surgery to relieve the noble carnation at the center of all the ribbon and sprigs and tape, it was unceremoniously pinned to my lapel.  There it chafed the grosgrain facing; there it chafed my sensibility; there, in photographs, it chafes to this day.  

    I forgave my bride, but if I ever run across that florist he had better hope his pruning shears are well out of reach.  Why blame the florist?  Because it is this otherwise respected profession that is responsible for the perversion of the boutonnière.  Do a simple image search; the results will reveal lapels groaning under everything from seaweed to clouds of moss.  I don’t doubt the artistry involved in conceiving of and hand-making these displays, but I’m not interested in sacrificing my own understated style so a florist can look pleased with his work.  Also—and it really cannot be ignored—florists can charge a great deal more for these grandiose boutonnières than would be tolerated for the individual stem.

    This leaves a single way to ensure the boutonnière is correct: walk into a florist, request one flower, pay for it, and then, as if the thought has just occurred to you, snap off all but two inches of the stem, slipping the remainder through your lapel’s buttonhole.  Do not, whatever happens, hand the flower back to the florist to cut it; I guarantee it will return wrapped in tape with some cheap ribbon or forlorn spray flowers.  The problem with this scenario is because they are inexpensive, rare is the florist who has a fresh stock of carnations for individual sale, let alone in suitable colors.

    The complications so far outlined will inevitably lead the flower-less man to what seems like a sensible and permanent solution: the watered silk boutonnière.  I don’t disagree that high quality silk flowers make very convincing facsimiles.  The efficiency of the guise also appeals.  I’m nevertheless unconvinced.  It seems too slippery a slope; first false flowers and then, what, those T-shirts printed to look like tuxedoes?  If I’m going to wear a flower, I want it to visibly wilt as the evening progresses, until, in a dramatic signal that the party is over, it can be pulled from the lapel and flung.  

    Why wear a flower in the first?  Actually, I rarely do.  I used to wear them for other people’s weddings, which is technically correct, but gave the practice up after one too many sidelong looks from relatives of the bride and groom which seemed to say: who the blazes are you?  But for daytime events, like christenings, or non-ceremonial evening events, like galas or the opera, few other accessories have quite the same effect.  A single flower in the lapel is grand, pushing the man’s suit to the precipice of elegance.  But do remember: even the slightest further embellishment will send you hurtling over the edge. 

A Brushing Up

Garment brushes relaxing between shifts.  The one of the right is rimmed in soft white bristles for more delicate clothes of cashmere, flannel and lambswool.

    I sometimes wonder if brushing a suit is really just an arcane performance, long surpassed by evolved technology or shifting cultural practice.  Like shaving with a straight razor, more efficient means exist for the job, and if a man really can’t be bothered he can display facial hair without fear of raised eyebrows.  Curiously, while five days growth might not attract much attention, dusty lapels and shoulders do get noticed.  Something to do with a cultural repulsion to dandruff, I suspect.  So what is the correct tool for combat?  

    The most widely used is surely the adhesive roller.  These work, but have two problems.  The first can be ascribed to Murphy: if in a rush for some important appointment, the roller will have a single used sheet remaining.  The other problem is that a roller only grabs surface dust and hair, leaving other matter embedded in the cloth.  Those velvet pads are unhelpful for the same reason, and anything battery-operated is obviously out, if not for the potential of failure (batteries are a famous entry point for Murphy) then for the control one gives up in pressure and vigor.  I have heard accounts of mangled pic-stitching and premature threadbareness while in the hands of dry-cleaners and their exotic devices.  

    I still say the traditional brush is best.  What it gives up in immediate gratification it makes up for by never running out, and while removing hairs and dust might take a more diligent session than the ten seconds previously spent with a roller, the results over time are clearly superior.  You would’t take a few hasty swipes with a straight razor, lop an ear off, and decide the blade’s sharpness was the problem, would you?  No—like any manual solution the results are in the persistence of correct technique.  Here is what works for me:  

Have one stiff and one soft brush.  Use the former for hard worsteds, dense tweed, crisp linen and cotton, the latter for flannel, cashmere, lambswool and anything that seems delicate.

Angle the brush down in the direction of the pass to avoid the bristles biting into the cloth.

Several long, gentle passes are preferable to short, brisk ones.  The danger of raising an undesirable nap is real, even on seemingly robust tweed.

Use the free hand to gently pull taught the cloth being brushed.  Alternatively, support the cloth from inside, running the free hand in tandem with the brush.

Pay particular attention to the shoulders and lapels.  Not only are these the most noticeable portions of a suit, they also collect the most debris.  

Avoid brushing too heavily the sleevehead.  Cloth and shaping can show wear here more readily.  

Set aside half an hour to brush a full suit.  A two minute job achieves virtually nothing.

The Small Things

    Between the steamer trunk and the hand-bag exists the traveler who goes lightly, but not entirely without those small artifacts of civility.  For my wife, these are capra goat hair makeup brushes, at least four sizes and individually wrapped in tissue paper.  She is otherwise a very sensible companion.  My small cache of home comfort consists of three utilitarian items, not one of which has ever raised the suspicions of a surly border agent.  

    A thumb-sized purse might have slipped into irrelevance with a move to the US where the $1 banknote made carrying coinage unnecessary.  It rode in the center console of my car for some time holding quarters, but even parking meters are paid in plastic these days.  It now is essential when I travel, holding collar stays, cuff links and the occasional tie-pin (for windy, tie-wearing occasions abroad).  Pig skin, double stitched with a nickel zipper.  Despite physical abuse, not to mention multiple existential upheavals, it endures.  

    A shoe horn might seem an obvious-enough accoutrement to travel, but try finding one small enough that doesn’t require unfolding or some other switch-blade-like action alarming to security guards and spouses.  Mine is black leather embossed in gold with the words “Made in England,” a calming phrase which must defray some of the shoe-horn’s threatening nature.  I have no idea where it came from; it appeared one day in my carry-on like some sort of talisman of a future without crushed heel-cups.

    The final, and most recent addition to my arsenal of creature comforts is a mitten of shearling and pebble grain leather for the purpose of buffing one’s shoes while away from the full complement of emollients and horse-hair brushes.  The design is ingenious, rolling up to save space (and, presumably, the purity of the sheep pile).  I have not yet had the opportunity to test the full patience of a border agent with this device; it can’t possibly be any more offensive than individually wrapped cosmetic brushes.

New York City's Leffot has a basket of these nestled among a collection of very fine shoes.  

The Rarest Cloth

Little can challenge the perfection of worn-in white linen.

    Whether my collection of handkerchieves is considered vintage I don’t know.  They are old, and rather international, having mostly come to me through my parents before they moved to the US.  I like to think of them comfortably occupying their shelf like a privy council of foreign and wise elders.  Each serves a role, from the plain and modest to the colorful and moody, but the collective purpose is balance.

    They are adamantly not pocket squares though.  That loathsome term suggests delicacy and useless adornment.  What could be more vain than some verboten and fragile little square of cloth worn arranged on the chest?  The purely decorative role is already occupied by the tie; a handkerchief is utilitarian, which is why it is pushed into an easily accessible outside breast pocket.  But whatever panache a displayed handkerchief can achieve will only materialize for the wearer who is committed to its regular sacrifice to spills, sneezes, tears, and comfort.  That willingness to serve is the difference between artifice and chivalry.  

Totally tonal.

    And so the most prominent members of my collection are plain white handkerchieves. They have no color to bleed, nor patterns to preserve.  They have dabbed at every type of tear and are as gentle as mink to a raw nose.  But there is more than just comfort to these old handkerchieves.   That same gauzy character enables the most attractive puff from the breast pocket.  The less described the technique, the better, but the general movement starts with a gentle pinch of the center, a subtle corralling by the other hand and an inexact folding over on to itself before being pushed into the pocket.  Do not look at the results in the mirror—just leave.  This takes almost as much discipline as yanking it into service does.  

    Tonal, patterned handkerchieves work very well too.   An honorable place in my collection belongs to a print by Swiss artist and friend, Claudia Meyer.  This handkerchief is an example of her very early work given to my father when I was a boy.  Faded taupe, charcoal and cream are layered in angular exuberance and deliberate artiness.  The result is the most earnest pastiche of the middle 1980s imaginable.  I once considered framing it, as I’m not entirely sure it is a handkerchief in the first place, but abandoned the idea for fear of having nothing unusual to put in my pocket for gallery and museum events.  

A grouping of Hanae Mori prints: strangely versatile.

    Some more complex little wisp of color and form appearing from the breast pocket can also be effective.  My favorite colored handkerchieves are an old series of Hanae Mori prints in very fine linen.  These are not the pea-cocking color bombs that have become the mark of stylists and glossy magazine editors.   The use of color is instead expertly tempered with sparse arrangement, restrained borders and white space.  Despite the apparent decorative aspect, these are my most versatile handkerchieves.  Depending on how they are put in the pocket the effect can be restrained or dominant and yet they remain fairly casual.  I reach for one of these too often.

    Here is a test: go to your own collection and choose the newest, finest one and blow your nose.  If you can’t bring yourself to use it for its primary purpose, it will never reward you with any of its corollary style.  Repeatedly laundering a new handkerchief won’t produce the same effect; a handkerchief achieves perfection only by use.  I have a few newish ones myself, gifts mostly.  The patterns and make of these are beautiful; I am excited to put one in my breast pocket in two decades or so.

Held in Suspense

Versatile reptile.  

    More than any other element of the masculine wardrobe, trouser fashion is really a function of physics.  Whereas lapel widths might be endlessly variable according to the whims of the influential, the design of trousers takes place within rather narrow boundaries.  They must either be suspended by some means or be low and snug enough to resist gravity on their own.  Fashion vacillates between silhouettes every twenty years or so, but the general architecture of the garment remains a choice between the two.

    While braces and side straps are unquestionably my preference on suits, dinner clothes and most odd trousers, I haven’t banished the belt altogether.  When they fit, jeans should resist gravity on their own, but they look strange without a belt.  Denim, with its pronounced twill and variegated coloring, seems to cry out for something rich put through its loops.  I like substantial bridle leather in mottled tan or mid-brown, and brass for the buckle because steel is pedestrian and sterling far too costly for an accessory designed for less formal use.

    If luxury is the goal, though, it’s hard to do better than alligator or crocodile.  Unless expertly worn, shoes made from exotic skins can easily seem too flash.  A strip of the stuff around the waist, though, provides an appealing texture and welcome departure from the expected matching calf of the wearer's shoes.  I have had a dark brown alligator belt for almost twenty years that still sees regular use.  Some combination of cracked finish, faded coloring, obvious repairs and perceived luxury makes it one of the more versatile objects in my wardrobe.  

A webbing belt in a particularly sedate color. Try one in red, bottle-green or navy.  

    Far cheaper ways of achieving similar pleasing effects can be had with belts made from webbing, ribbon, or crochet.  This is perhaps the best way to introduce a cheeky aspect to non-suit-wearing occasions; a flash of brightly colored grosgrain beneath an open blazer is a well-understood play by style icons past and present.  The most famous example is perhaps the silk ties Fred Astaire threaded through his high-waisted trousers.  Better still, there is a picture somewhere of the Duke of Windsor wearing a pale rope around his tidy waist.  One might be forgiven for wondering if this was a wistful reference to his abandonment of duty—a sort of sardonic symbol of shirked responsibilities. I’m waiting for some brazen young designer to make one of braided coaxial cable in a similar nod to abdication from an expected role.  

    If there is a common theme here it is belts should honor their military and sporting heritage.  “Dress belts,” those slim straps made of anonymous black calf and adorned with sleek buckles, aren’t nearly as useful as belts made from textured, whimsical or somewhat rustic ingredients.  Formal versions of innately informal objects often have this problem.  Belts signify informality, and that’s fine.  Whether braces, side straps or belts, just make sure whatever is doing the lifting is capable; while fashionably slim pants won’t result in arrest, those worn around the ankles very likely will.

Bridle leather in all its thick, mottled glory.  

Drawing Straws

A Montecristi blocked into a derby shape.  For the dedicated collector.  Photographed at Optimo, Chicago.

    A head, unlike a waist, doesn’t fluctuate seasonally, and unless a person loses or gains a significant volume of hair, once a good measurement is on file with a hat-maker, the task of ordering really becomes a styling exercise.  With creases, dents, crowns, welts, brims, bindings, bands, and bows to consider, this is no trivial task, but compared to the multiple appointments necessary for a suit, a visit with a hatter is comparatively brief.  When your hatter is Optimo of Chicago, brevity is a shame; between all the dense felt, the spools of grosgrain and billowing steam, it is a particularly evocative place.  I have often been in the shop and witnessed other customers finding reasons to linger well-past orders have been placed.  Others might have noticed the same of me.  

    The hat wearer is considering straw at the moment.  At the top of that broad, warm-weather category is the Montecristi, the finely woven toquilla straw hats from the namesake Ecuadorian city.  Ultrafino qualities can run into the thousands and are highly collectible; the best I’ve handled was basically indistinguishable from linen.  Regular Montecristis are also beautiful, and less likely to cause a man-overboard scenario if blown from your head while boating.  Whether the finest or the entry level, Montecristis project a crisp, formal character; they can be worn casually, but seem to reward those unafraid to dress for an occasion.

    Further down the price spectrum is my personal favorite—the Milan (MY-lan).  This courser, golden weave has a variegated texture and a rich seagrass aroma.  Mine started life quite stiff but has softened and fuzzed over time, exchanging some of its blocked shape for a slouchy, well-worn character.  It is head, rather than hat-shaped and accompanies nothing more formal than a shirt worn open at the neck and loafers.  

    Milan seams to do best in a standard teardrop crown with a soft pinch and brown-toned hat band.  More exciting bands with tonal or contrasting stripes can be very handsome, but limit somewhat the hat’s compatibility with other clothes.  Montecristis classically have a black band; the contrast is perfect next to the pale cream straw, like a calligrapher’s bold underscore on a luxurious calling card.

 But don’t linger over these choices for too long; Memorial Day, the traditional start of straw season, approaches.

A well-loved, well-worn Milan.  

Penumbra (Part 2)

    While browsing wood for an armoire I’m having made, I uncovered from the back of the warehouse a narrow slab of real gaboon ebony.  It was almost jet, with a resinous dusting, and an obvious density far greater than the surrounding walnut and maple.  The carpenter with me spoke dreamily of what a lovely lintel or bar shelf it would make, but I couldn’t shake another idea: split and turned, it would have made a magnificent umbrella stick.  

    Thoughts like this perfectly demonstrate how slippery the slope is once the cloistered little world of custom and vintage umbrellas has been discovered.  I have held sterling silver handles no lighter than seven pounds, and pre-war ivory pommels yellowed to the color of country butter.  Ash, olive, chestnut, blackthorn, whangee and malacca—all these and more have been made into umbrellas.  Hidden swords are no longer popular, but secret flasks, pop-out pens and compasses can be found easily.  I understand real silk canopies provide the sweetest chorus in a downpour, but standard nylon is for me just as magical (and far more waterproof).  

    These materials can be a joy for the collector, but if an edited and practical umbrella wardrobe is the goal, only one design element needs real consideration: the stick.  An umbrella with a shaft that has been affixed to its handle is not a bad thing; it may never break and may even be necessary when dealing with exotic materials like whangee.  But a continuous, solid hardwood stick provides a rigidity, beauty and confidence that is hard to do without out once experienced.  

    I prefer pairs of things to the all-purpose, but if one quality umbrella must suffice, it should probably be a slim stick with a black canopy.  Mine is a scorched and polished maple, and the shaft itself has been turned to a slimmer shape than standard, permitting the frame to roll tightly.   The result is sturdy, conservative, lightweight and elegant.  This is the iconic black brollie carried by a certain generation of Londoners, emulated in television and cinema and symbolic of a bygone civility.  

    A second umbrella might employ a few more daring choices.  Ash makes a strong, country-inspired stick, particularly when the bark has been retained for the crook.  Mine has an especially mottled appearance, with patches of olive, bronze and green; perhaps it inspired the deep, racing green canopy.  For those that give thought to coordination, an umbrella like this  might be reserved for those rainy occasions when the day's clothes reflect a similarly earthy palette.  

    Finally there is the sporting category, where more fun still may be had.  Golfers carry umbrellas for passing squalls; they are big and often brightly colored.  I’m not a golfer so my version, while still larger than the other two, is not oversized.  The solid oak stick has heft and only tapers slightly, and the canopy—navy with lilac pinstripes—broadcasts its use in more leisurely pursuits, like walking the dogs and amateur field sports.  It’s well-made but not precious or delicate.  

    Unsurprisingly, resources are limited.  London’s James Smith and Co. has a deep inventory of sticks, all of which can be cut to order, and a few canopy colors and sizes.  Swaine Adeney Brigg makes a very fine umbrella, some with sterling accents.  Italian makers exist too; their offerings are perhaps less refined, but choices in canopies and handle trimmings are excellent—perfect for a sporting umbrella.  For the truly obsessed, sourcing one’s own materials—like ebony—is possible, but hardly seems necessary considering the existing choices.  There are only so many rainy days, after all. 

Penumbra

A low ceiling of threatening clouds is a welcome sight to the umbrella enthusiast.

    Raincoats can be a challenge.  I don’t mean the waxed cotton variety meant for rough wear over sweaters; I’ve had my Barbour for ten years and it looks better (by which I mean worse) each season.  Raincoats meant for wear with a suit or odd jacket are where problems arise.  It seems there are two choices: breathability or water resistance.  (Style is another matter entirely, of which the choices are the double breasted trench, the fly-fronted mac and the high-tech abomination). The grail is probably a reversible balmacaan featuring two shades of treated gaberdine.  My enthusiasm for the hunt, though, has always been dampened by the other option: umbrellas.  In other words, I’m not anti-raincoat; I’m pro-umbrella.

    And why not?  Who doesn’t harbor a secret, unspoken desire to carry a handsome stick?  But to do so without the honest need is to immediately consign oneself to clowndom.  A proper umbrella, however, is a romantic object, at once a relic and an acceptable appurtenance.  If the shaft is solid, an umbrella performs all the classic uses typically reserved for canes: aiding in walking, gesticulating, ushering small children, warding off strays.  But when the clouds ripen, and the first fat drops stain the pavement, a series of deft snaps and flicks deploys the cambered canopy that saves its user from costume.

    In fact, the rain reveals the umbrella’s final and best trick: the pitter-patter.  It is a familiar sound, a warming tone of temporary shelter that sings of human ingenuity.  Animals scatter in a downpour; people pop open their umbrellas and march out in merry pursuit of whatever endeavor is scheduled.  The canopy’s edge, like the penumbra’s rim of half-light, runs heavily with water that could have soaked, but, foiled, instead forms rivulets around its purposeful occupant.  The rain may pass, or return in double; it matters little to the person for whom an umbrella is standard kit.  

    The practical aspect is somewhat less colorful.  An umbrella can be deployed or retracted in a moment, without the fumbling and smoothing required of raincoats.  This is especially true during summer, when afternoon showers are frequent, but the temperature and humidity too high to comfortably wear an additional, often unbreathable layer.  

    But to achieve all this—from the fanciful to the practical—an umbrella’s design is crucial.    The flimsy, street-merchant versions are found handle-up in waste bins following a downpour for a reason.  And collapsables, while earnest in design, so often disappoint in execution.  I alluded earlier to the solid shaft, by which is meant a one-piece stick turned and routed to accommodate a collapsable frame.  Unsurprisingly, this is an expensive configuration, but if much is required of the umbrella, some investment in its design is necessary.  Thoughts on the  best options shall be covered in part 2.

Think of a good brollie as a mobile shelter, a walking stick and a signal to ruffians to keep their distance.

i-Fold

    My first pocket knife was a Victorinox, bought for me while visiting family in Switzerland.  I was definitely too young to have a pocket knife, but either my parents had faith in me or took comfort  in the minuscule blade, and so started a life-long relationship with folding knives.  I specify the folding variety here not because fixed blades don’t interest me—I have a modest collection of German kitchen steel that features prominently in my will—but because folders posses a particular allure suited to the connoisseur.  The pocket knife is the gentleman’s knife.  

    The variety in folding knives is staggering, but I suppose the broad categories are as follows:   the standard folder of unprecious materials; the slender penknife; the Swiss; the contemporary multitool; the custom and rare.  I am an amateur, favoring classic French folders, but for the collector, that last category is where things can get out of hand.  I borrowed several knives from friends for the photographs below, the last of which is a custom job of Damascus steel, black diamonds and wooly mammoth tusk. 

    Some might question the reason for possessing, let alone carrying a pocket knife.  Some may even find it alarming.  These are usually the same people who are genuinely surprised to learn that the soles of your shoes are made from leather, or that the buttons on your cuffs work.  Is there a boyish romance associated with having a small knife in an interior pocket?  Certainly; not unlike offering a light with a proper lighter, producing a small knife when something needs cutting—a clothes tag, an orange rind—is one of those small gestures that seems to charmingly linger for those who witness it.

    Finally, a word on the law; it exists, and should be locally researched before toting anything.  Of course my favorites are about as dangerous as manicuring tools (indeed a few serve that very purpose), but rules are rules.  Oh, and unless you don’t mind having your pocketknife unceremoniously binned before your eyes, air travel is right out.  Which is a pity, because I can almost guarantee that you will stumble upon a perfect pocketknife in some foreign market and have to spend a small fortune shipping it home. 

The Handsomest Glow

Two of a kind?  No; delightfully different

    Unless you count the occasional Connecticut shade cigar (my physician doesn’t), I do not smoke.  I am drawn to the paraphernalia though.  After your first, it’s difficult not to covet other vintage hotel ashtrays, though how many quirky soap dishes are necessary?  An interesting table-top match-strike at least can be used to light candles.  Cigarette cases can be exquisite, but they seem affected when used to carry business cards.  Repurposing often has that effect.

    In contrast, a finely made lighter is a beautiful object to admire and use.  I own two excellent examples that I carry regularly.  They are the same model—the iconic Rollagas by Dunhill—separated by forty years.  I like to put them side by side and study each carefully, quietly noting the small aesthetic differences.  I have recently decided there is more to learn here than immediately meets the eye.  Studying in reverse order of date of manufacture—the late 2000s and the late 1960s—is particularly revealing.

    The more recent of these two lighters is finished in a brilliant palladium.  Unlike white gold or silver, which retains some warmth, palladium has a pure white cast.  Some may suggest the effect is cold; to me it is in keeping with the aesthetic of more formal occasions when, at least for men, color should be limited, if not avoided altogether.  This is the lighter I carry when in formalwear, or short of that, when an occasion is equal parts formal and celebratory and my suit is too.  

    The surface pattern—what Dunhill rather charmingly describes as barleycorn—covers the entirety.  In what must be the engineering equivalent of bespoke pattern matching, the flip-top and body are aligned so precisely that the texture appears uninterrupted.  The corners of the lighter are mitered and the sum effect is brick-like, as if the finished object was hewn from a solid ingot of palladium.  The lighter is heavy for its size; I wonder sometimes if this was a contemporary design choice—a physical reminder that something luxurious inhabits your pocket.  

    The other (and first) Rollagas was a gift to my mother.  For years it languished in some forgotten drawer until, to my astonishment, I discovered it one Christmas Eve.  It was caked with candle wax and lint, and the striking mechanism was jammed.  I had it carefully reconditioned; it returned gleaming and gorgeously patinated.  The gold-plating is worn but not shabby; the mechanics are still responsive but comfortably broken-in; the same barleycorn surface, smoothed with age, feels frictionless, like the polished underbelly of a reptile.

    Obvious design differences abound.  The flip-top cap is untextured, with blunted corners that glide effortlessly in and out of the pocket.  In place of sharply mitered edges, a worn frame subtly delineates the textured planes.  Along with exposed hinges and a rear-mounted flame wheel, this design broadcasts the mechanics more honestly.  The result isn’t clumsy though; perhaps some combination of patina and color is responsible, but this one seems smaller and lighter in the hand.  It is certainly a subtler expression, better suited to ordinary occasions.

    Of course operating either requires the same series of elegant little gestures.   Once fished from a pocket (a lower waistcoat one is ideal) a flick of the thumb pops the cap with piston-activated efficiency.  The thumb then instinctively finds the roller, the deep grooves encouraging that familiar lateral flick.  The flame ignites its mark, and then, as if fed-up by all the grandeur, the index finger takes over, coldly snapping closed the cap with a satisfying, metallic clap.  The point is made especially well when asked for a light; the performance is over in seconds, but the memory burns far longer.

I spy half-a-dozen subtle design differences.  You?