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.

Evenly Cooked

    For me, the realization that I wasn’t the sort of person whose skin grows golden and lustrous in the sun came shortly following a vigorous game of lacrosse on a South Florida beach when I was perhaps fourteen.  The tingling I felt was not, as I had thought, the salt water and kicked up sand; it was the beginning of a very bad burn.  The next morning, as those around me woke up handsomely burnished and ready for another game, my shoulders and back had developed a Mars-scape of scorched plains and raised plateaus.

    Happily, my skin has changed over the years and seems to take a light tan rather well now.  I say happily because, as anyone who has taken a look at one of those complexion color wheels knows, very little complements the permanently pale.  While I would never strive for George Hamilton levels of tan, a bit of sun on the cheeks can dramatically broaden the range of flattering shades worn.   While I emphasize light above, I wonder if natural is the real operative word; it’s the difference between someone who has tanned, and the tan acquired by someone while otherwise engaged.  The latter is, in my experience, far preferable.

These suggestions have served me well:

Find an activity to do.  Like a rotisserie chicken, movement in front of a heat source produces more even results.

Several applications of lower SPF are better than one slathering of higher SPF—strikingly similar to basting.

The use of accelerants, tanning beds and spray colorant is akin to artificial flavorings and dyes.  

If sedentary tanning must be done, avoid overdoing it.  A few minutes on each side should do.

No napping; the danger of waking up well-done is just too great.

Palms provide lousy shade.  

Some Haul

A jacket neatly inverted and folded.

    For a certain sector of clothing enthusiast, nowhere do principles of cloth selection, construction, versatility and coordination more perfectly culminate than when it comes time to contain their garments in a case for travel.  Packing, is for those fringe elements, art.  I can’t say I share the position; neither can I deny a certain pleasure in a properly packed case that produces barely wrinkled, easily unpacked garments a few moments after arriving at a destination.  So in that spirit, I offer a few principles of packing well.  

    At the heart of the matter is a tension between efficiency and care—the need to use space wisely and the desire not to damage your things in the process.  I firmly favor care, which means I’d rather pack less and make do then cram more and risk wrinkled lapels and shoulders unsalvageable with mere irons and shower steam.  But I also believe the right case can allow some compromise between the two.  A hard shell case might seem old fashioned, but cannot be beaten for interior space and exterior durability.  

    These also encourage the building of an interior architecture.  For a short trip, that architecture might look as follows: two pairs of odd trousers, halved at the knee and laid flat; one pair of shoes, in shoe bags, one at either end of the case; socks and underwear folded or rolled along the long sides of the case; into the central cavity now created by shoes, socks and underwear place folded shirts, handkerchieves, ties, sweaters, polos, bathing suit and dopp kit in layers; buckle straps, if present; finally, lay tailored jackets, shoulders pushed through and folded in half, on top and gently close the lid.  

    What’s this business about pushing shoulders through?  As techniques go, this one is better shown than described, but the basic principle is to reverse one shoulder into the cavity of the other and then fold the jacket in half, protecting the lapels and jacket fronts in the process.  There are two things to keep in mind though.  One, the interior straps of a hard case are terrific for securing your other items, but to cinch a gorgeous navy double breasted is criminal. Secondly, this is a technique most suited to active traveling shorter than three hours, after which time wrinkles are inevitable.  

    Enter the garment bag, by which I don’t mean the luggage variety meant to be checked.  Instead I refer to the vinyl or cloth ones that come with suits.  I despise having to keep these, but I do for precisely the following reason.  Whether through magic or physics, a suit in a garment bag, folded in half and put into a case resists wrinkles.  This ease and care comes at heavy cost though; plopping a garment bag full of suit in a case is a lavish waste of space.  As I said, at the core of packing is a debate between efficiency and care.  

    Hats, of course, are impossible, and I always smile when I see those men so dedicated to their prize felt or straw that the thing doesn’t leave their head for fear of being mangled in an overhead bin.  A valid fear, I would say, but with an unreasonable response.  For me, travel is an ideal opportunity to use a soft cap.  That’s a compromise I’m happy to make. 

Don't feel pressured to close your case until the last moment.  

Driven Mad

This center-lane pedestrian sign was sheered from its base after an encounter with a driver who doesn't recognize the crosswalk.  

    At first glance I suppose the limits of this particular forum might seem stretched by delving into road etiquette.  Stick to lobster and loafers, I can hear more devoted readers chiming.  But isn’t there some connection behind the appreciation of good clothes, nice food and etiquette generally?  That we should practice some elevated sense of the latter when captaining a one-ton machine seems logical.  And what is the point of any personal upkeep if there is no aspiration toward style?  Physical fitness, a pleasing diet, even the maintenance of a clean and well-fitting wardrobe is easy.  But the intangibles are always a truer measure of character.  In short, driving well is absolutely an expression of style.  

    Now before criticism arrises suggesting that I am in favor of draining the fun from driving, let me say this:  I almost cannot believe that there are still speed limits on the deserted and largely straight highways that hash this vast land, and little appeals like the combination of a short-throw manual, six cylinders and a winding road.  But there is a vast chasm between savoring the drive and driving like a high school senior in brief possession of his father’s sedan.  If the latter is to be avoided, low-hanging fruit is plentiful.  Here are a few easily corrected missteps.

 1)  Four hundred (plus) horsepower is only as useful as your ability to maintain a constant rate.  Most have witnessed the highway driver who hammers along for a few thousand yards only to drop back while fiddling with the onboard electronics.  Noticing he has fallen behind, he punches the accelerator again, his capable engine rocketing him ahead of the pack once more.  This continues until his destination is reached—about five minutes after drivers capable of keeping their feet on the gas have reached theirs.  

 2)  That short lever mounted on the right of the steering column is an indicator.  I’m almost certain its neglect is the result of its name, which connotes courtesy and predictability—two qualities that have fallen from favor, especially, it seems, in the minds of those traveling at speed on the highway.  I always have to shake my head and smile when I see a fast German import sliding, un-indicated, across three lanes of traffic.  Doesn’t the driver realize that his indicator is designed for high-speed autobahn driving?  If the time had been taken to understand his vehicle he would have learned that an extended finger can nudge the indicator without having to remove a hand from the wheel; the exterior lamps will flash three times before shutting off—ample warning to other experienced drivers.  Poor fellow: what other pleasures of his excellent car does he go without?

 3)  Speaking of the autobahn, another lesson from those venerable roads goes unheeded in this country: the lanes on a highway are not just three identical, forward-moving options to be selected at random.  The left-most is for passing at speed, the center for general travel and the right is for entering and exiting the highway.  This is such a simple concept and yet if the question was asked at random I’d wager no more than 10% would answer correctly.  I’m not an expert, but it seems most heavy traffic could be avoided if this rule was rigorously enforced—say a month-long suspension of your license for toodling along in the left lane or trying to pass on the right.  

 4)  That generous swathe of white paint spanning the road ahead of you is a pedestrian crossing.  If there are pedestrians present (these are people who have lost their cars) you are required to stop before the paint and permit passage.  I must admit that this is a particular peeve of mine.  As an inveterate walker I, along with other like-minded individuals, have lobbied for the installation of crosswalks in my immediate neighborhood following a series of frightening hits and near-misses.  Lo-and-behold, it worked: paint appeared, and along with flashing lights and little flexible signs between the lanes all looked solved.  Sadly, a few months on and only one of those center-lane signs remains—the rest have been mangled or launched into the foliage by drivers who had never before encountered this strange new “pedestrian crossing.”

Apart from regularly being used, the German rear indicator lamp differs little from other blinkers.  

Bobbing About

Early morning is the best time for a furtive swim--so early that this swimmer was still wearing his evening shirt.

    I no longer have easy access to a swimming pool, so when on holiday and one is suddenly available at all hours, I take full advantage.  A hard swim raises the heart rate and taxes the muscles, but, unlike running or skipping rope, I never emerge in desperate search of a shower.   I know of no other exercise that is so rigorous and so refreshing.  I disappear several times each vacation day, before meals and between engagements, returning a little out of breath but otherwise ready for whatever is scheduled.  

    Maybe my definition of swimming for exercise differs from most.  I often see other swimmers plodding away, rhythmically putting length after length behind them.  I have neither the patience (nor, likely, that sort of endurance) to spend an hour in the pool.  So I sprint.  Down-and-back, rest, down-and-back, rest and so on.  I’m not opposed to slower, longer swims; I just prefer the thrill and efficiency of half-a dozen sprints.  

    The crawl is the classic fast swim.  It works the shoulders, torso and back, but I always find it lacking for the legs.  Strangely, the breast stroke, which is slower and more methodical, is a greater challenge when executed at speed.  I think this has something to do with drag; the crawl forces a long, elegant line through the water, whereas the body is square during a breast stroke, ploughing through the chop like a slow but capable tug boat.  

    A brisk breast stroke also seems to work the chest in a different way to the pushup.  It’s a spreading versus a pressing motion, and the muscle fibers quickly make themselves known by a deep and unfamiliar ache.  The same is true for the legs; squats might strengthen the thighs, but the frog kick required during the breast stroke forces a pulling and pushing that becomes apparent by sprint number two.  And whether it is realized or not, none of these motions are possible without tightening the abdomen.  The chest, thighs, abdomen—these areas are precisely what a man should keep an eye on as he ages if he wishes to fill his jackets and avoid letting out his trousers.  

    Like my other preferred forms of fitness, no gear is necessary.  I see others with goggles and noseclips, earplugs and swim caps.  I’m sure they provide benefits for the dedicated, but I find sauntering into the pool area, cranking out a dozen sprints before cooling off in the shallow end is about as efficient and carefree as exercise gets.  One minor word of caution though: as you become faster in the water, and the waist inevitably slims, you will be tempted to vault yourself from the water at the pool's edge.  Do make sure your trunks have a good drawstring.

Ready, steady, swim... (followed immediately by cocktail hour).  

The Penance

This unknown German etching portrays a pious woman who has injured herself in an act of mortification.  Oats are a comparatively simple lifestyle adjustment.  

    At some stage, everyone is prescribed oatmeal.  The reasons vary, from being surrounded by idiots (high blood pressure) to shrinking trousers (weight gain), but the prescription remains largely the same.  Oatmeal isn’t exactly challenging food, although those who do take issue with the stuff are usually objecting to the meal part of the equation.  Happily, the health benefits of oats are also available outside of the gruel state.

    My favorite non-gruel preparation is a classic: granola.  It’s funny that the word granola has acquired the connotation it has considering how far up the luxury ladder a quality preparation can be.  Premium rolled oats are rather more expensive than one might expect, and once the honey, spices, nuts and dried fruits are added it seems more like sacrificial ambrosia than preferred snack of the sandaled set.  In fact, the high-cost is why I insist on making it at home.  

    If the trouble is going to be taken to make granola, the only sensible option is to produce in volume.  The work is the same, whether three cups or three pounds, and granola seems to keep indefinitely—it will also disappear much faster than one might think. To make large quantities a big stainless steel bowl is needed for mixing, and the baking will have to be done on multiple sheets that are rotated between oven racks a few times—minor issues, really.  The recipe below specifies one standard canister but can easily expand to two, three or ten canisters, multiplying the other ingredients accordingly.  

    Resist the temptation to add nuts and dried fruits prior to baking.  Many recipes suggest doing so but the results can be problematic.  The former will become bitter baking for that much time (and may become rancid in storage) and the latter will either burn or become brittle.  Also, controlling even distribution is futile, meaning someone at your brunch party is going to get little more than fruit-and-nut-less shake.  Accessories are best prepared and added at time of service.  Freshly roasted pecans are the richest addition; raisins are classic, but dried cranberries, chopped dates and figs are widely available now too.  Fresh fruit doesn’t really need an explanation, although if it isn’t sweet enough try macerating it first.  

    Obviously the preparation discussed above and the recipe outlined below hardly rank alongside the cilice.  But a small portion of granola served with yoghurt is undoubtedly a leaner start to the day than a full English breakfast.  Penance?  Perhaps not.  Maybe granola is like the eponymous hypocrite's hairshirt in Molier's Tartuffe—flaunted for appearance.  Let the truly dedicated suffer beneath oatmeal; I'm not ashamed to choose granola everytime.

Ingredients:

18-ounce canister of premium rolled oats

2 whipped egg whites

1/2 cup of canola oil

1/2 cup of honey

Pinch of salt

 Optional: Cinnamon, nutmeg, clove etc to taste.  Some may also prefer more honey for a sweeter result.  Remember though, sweetness can be adjusted at service.  

 Method:

In a large stainless bowl, fold all ingredients together with non-stick spatula.  Make certain to evenly distribute.  Turn mass out onto one or two parchment-lined sheet pans.  Bake in slowest/lowest possible convection heat for two hours.  With a spatula, break up and turn granola.  Turn oven off, crack oven door and leave overnight or until dry and brittle.  Break up large chunks and store in airtight glass container.

Oats, awaiting anointment.  

The Paris Principle

A roasted pig's head has quite a bit of mild, tender meat.

    Several days into the Paris leg of our honeymoon, my wife and I were treated to dinner by another young couple—vague family acquaintances—at a small but respected neighborhood bistro.  Knowing we were rather adventurous, the husband ordered.  The dishes that arrived were challenging little preparations of offal, salted fish and mysterious vegetables.  My wife and I gamely ate, helped along by terrific wines, and by mid-meal were sure we had cemented an agreeable impression.  And then an innocent little gratin arrived.  Even before our host cracked the still-sizzling crust I detected the deep, barnyard aroma; when he did, out wafted the pungent rennet-like stench of sheep’s tripe.  My wife (and I seem to recall his) shot back from the table; this was obviously a challenge leveled at me, perhaps as retaliation for pushing back against his rather hostile politics.  He smiled as he spooned some onto my plate.  So I ate, and in eating learned an advanced point of etiquette.

    You must eat the offal; the insect; the desiccated meat; the very old egg.  You may think you have a choice—you may believe your host who suggests it is fine to welch on the whelks.  That offer is only a reaffirmation that some testing, whether intentional or not, is at hand.  The correct answer is to eat.  You need not scarf; just eat.  One bite won’t do; two bites might; three encounters with the thing in question should satisfy even the most observant host.  You must taste with enthusiasm, but not so much as to invite second helpings.  But more than good acting, familiarity with the most common offenders is important.

    Unless you grew up eating them, cured or fermented fish preparations are a difficult proposition.  Fish sauce, botarga, canned bait fish—these things look innocent, but pack a ripe, dock-side pungency which is difficult to ignore.  The trick, if it can be called that, is to remember that they are seasonings.  An anchovy on its own will unpleasantly fill your nostrils, but blended into a caesar dressing registers as indistinctly savory.  The same is true of botarga, which is grated as one would hard cheese, or fish sauce, which should be sparingly sprinkled.  

    Conversely, insects seem scary, but are innocuous.  Crickets are somewhat mushroomy; ants often lemony.  Larvae are bland but the texture—that of creme-filled fresh peas—can be challenging.  It’s no coincidence that bugs are often deep-fried, supplanting their own texture with a more familiar sort of crisp.  Seasoned while still hot from the fat, most bugs could pass as movie-theatre snacks.  One caveat: I  haven’t tried living insects, but I understand they tend to scamper to the back of the throat if not immediately crushed between molars.  Unless there is some gustatory advantage to eating the living, I will preserve that experience for my next survival scenario.  

    The current vogue for offal has no doubt ruined many a date as one party pushes pig trotters on the other in some macho attempt to seem cosmopolitan.   Variety meats and organs are historically budget cuts; that they are now a mark of sophistication at downtown restaurants is only the first layer of irony of contemporary dining.  Consider this: with few exceptions, well-prepared offal is approachable, rich and delicious and no more challenging than sushi.  When cooked for hours, feet, faces and tails yield the tenderest meats.  Bone marrow is no more potent than the drippings from a roast.  With the exception of those from a goat, I’ve found brains to be mild.  Strangely, commonly eaten organs, like kidneys and livers, tend to be strongly flavored, and a poor experience with one of those is perhaps the source of most squeamishness.  If newbies were instead broken on sweetbreads or beef tendons, I imagine chefs would have to look elsewhere to appear edgy.

    Finally: hosting.  I don’t think pushing challenging food on people is polite, and even less so when there is an audience.  You may indeed make terrific blood sausage; forcing house guests to eat it first thing in the morning is poor form.  My table often features unusual food, but for every advanced dish is something familiar.  Interestingly, pickier eaters are often coaxed from their shells when just left alone.  Leave pushiness to Gitanes-smoking Parisians bent on embarrassing newlyweds.

Crickets are mild and crisp.  Coming soon to a theatre near you?

Surefooted

It's the rope, dope: twenty minutes with one of these each day will lead to trim calves, a strong heart, able feet and, ultimately, grace in motion.   Not a bad deal.  

    My middle school wrestling team was a motley collection of budding athletes and what might, if I’m being generous, be termed filler.   The coaching staff was superb though, making proper competitors out of many of us.  Strangely, it is the assistant coach I recall best.  He was a compact man—perhaps 5’5” and, though judging these things can be difficult, I imagine he weighed no more than 130 pounds.  He had angular features, which suited the way he moved: silently and often before you realized he had.  He was preternaturally quick, a quality valued more than strength in most combat sports, and could make mincemeat of men twice his size.  

    The memory of this person has remained all these years because he inspired me to take up skipping rope.  He was a master, the rope a whirring forcefield, his feet moving in strange and beautiful rhythm.  He seemed to levitate within, barely out of breath.  I wanted to be a good wrestler; I wanted much more to skip rope with similar grace. 

    Form is crucial.  You must skip with good posture—shoulders back, spine straight, belly drawn taught.  The temptation is to look at the floor; resist in favor of a point on the horizon.  This will ensure your neck remains unbent and will aid in balance.  Minimize arm movement, turning the rope with your wrists rather than flailing arms.  This too will help your balance.  Don’t focus on jumping over the rope.  Like shooting clay pigeons, you must visualize where your target will be rather than where it is.  Imagine you are trying to strike the space between your feet and the floor with the rope.  A rhythm, however slowly, will develop.  

    Once one does, and you feel you can skip without a tangle for several minutes at a time, increase the speed of the rope. You may also consider footwork at this point.  Begin with shifting your weight from one foot to the other until you can jog in place alternating the jumping foot.  Next try tapping the toes of your non-jumping foot between jumps, then add heel taps.  Impressive patterns will emerge; so too will sculpted calves.  

    The list of practical advantages to skipping rope is long.  If you have difficult joints or a problematic back skipping rope is a savior, providing rigorous cardiovascular exercise at a fraction of all the pounding that accompanies running.  There is the low-tech aspect to consider too.  I am not a fitness gadget person, preferring the classic and elemental.  I use a leather rope that I’ve had for years because of its weight and speed, but virtually any cording will work—from plastic-coated electrical wire to hemp mooring rope.  If you wish to avoid the nasty welts from the former and the calluses from the latter, a quality jumprope travels easily enough.  I have skipped rope in plenty of hotel rooms; it’s particularly satisfying to channel Ali by wearing one of the terry-cloth robes provided.

    I like to do intervals of five minutes or so punctuated by sets of pushups and sit-ups.  Besides the cardiovascular benefits, learning to skip well seems to improve relations between your feet and your brain.  I don’t know if I have achieved even half of my old coach’s ability with the rope.  The discipline clicked for me, though, when I realized his confident footwork wasn’t what made his skipping so good; rather, the considerable time he spent spinning that rope is what gave him his grace.

Reflections on a Sunday Ritual

    The very last thing the internet needs is another complex guide on how to polish shoes.  If you rotate a few pairs made of decent leather, using quality emollients and polishes to maintain them, our collective results will largely be similar.  So whether this guy applies buckets of mink oil, or that guy swears by vintage Krug for the final buff is of little consequence.  Instead, I propose three universal rules for the standard calfskin shoe.

    1:  Brush and tree your shoes after removing.  Absolutely no exceptions, not even of the amorous variety.  She must learn early.  

    2:  Use polish sparingly, attaining much of the desired luster from conditioner and vigorous brushing.  Spiffy, over-shined toe-caps are vulgar; so is spitting on your shoes.  

    3:  Institute a weekly appointment with your shoes.  If you wait until twenty minutes before curtain, you will spend the first act of Madama Butterfly in the lobby drinking lousy "champagne."  Paired with your insistence on rule #1, your evening will end unhappily.

    I’m not sure I can think of anything else that’s truly ironclad.  I suppose the general idea is to preserve your investment without giving the impression that you are weird.  Enjoy the fruits of my recent labor.  

Lost in (Closet) Space

And to think: this built-in once held some very questionable pajamas in Barney's haberdashery department.    

    Of the tropes employed by those house-hunting shows that clog cable in the evening, the most tiresome must surely be the one in which the wife complains to the husband about a lack of closet space in some prospective home and the husband, who inevitably likes the house because of the finished basement, turns to the camera, eyes rolling, and mumbles something about too many shoes anyway...  There are several things wrong with this.  To begin, as long as they are worn, there is no such thing as too many shoes.  Also, finished basements are always drafty and acoustically poor no matter how many neon beer signs are installed.  A cobwebbed wine cellar would be much better.  

    The biggest problem though is that these dim souls never think to suggest the solution to the problem: furniture.  Perhaps they are unaware that an entire sub-genre exists dedicated to the storage of clothing.  They might mollify their wives with a wink and a promise to find a grand old armoire.  Or a flame-mahogany chest of drawers.  A silk-lined lingerie tower?  A brass-inlaid steamer trunk?  I could go on, but I think the point is sufficiently made: closets aren’t the only players in storage.   

    Of course this is heresy for most people.  In fact, closets are so important to real-estate agents, they’ve added the word “space” to the end.  Grammatically, this is unnecessary; existentially, the closet (a small room with some shelves) has been elevated to the status of deal-breaker/maker.  Good for closets, perhaps, but bad for style generally.  

    Surely the root of the issue is that we have too much.  This is a problem hardly limited to clothes; unwearable things have a nasty habit of loitering in closets.  But if we focus for a moment on the wearable stuff, I think we generally find plenty of fat too.  I will avoid any prescriptions of how many of what one should have if one is a traveling salesman versus a downtown lawyer.  Most are aware of their needs.  I am, however, a firm proponent of the practical wardrobe.  Not monastic austerity--just honest editing.  The real demons of practical wardrobes are those garments we regard with potential, or, worse, sentimentality.  Garments that possess a vague sense of importance and little else.  And it is closets--no, closet space-- that encourages the gathering of all this unwelcome debris.   

    But what does this all have to do with style?  The answer is twofold.  One, dressing isn’t always an easy task.  Perhaps one is in a hurry, or attending some social function where clothes must be more carefully selected than usual.  It has always seemed to me that too great a variety is perilous in these scenarios.  When the variables are reduced and well organized, dressing under duress is considerably easier.    The second answer is perhaps more romantic: a beautiful armoire neatly hung with well-fitting suits can be a magnificent thing.  The same may be said of a sturdy bow-front chest containing carefully folded shirts and sweaters.  Or a brass rack with well polished shoes, each more gem-like than the last.  

    My contribution is more modest.  Some years ago when the Barney’s around the corner was moving, they decided to sell the shop’s fixtures and furniture. Using a crow bar and a hand-saw, I liberated a display unit from the haberdashery department.  After considerable wedging, sanding and painting I have a very satisfying place to hang suits.  The drawers hold socks, and the cupboard luggage.  The surface beneath the suits has indentations where I stack handkerchiefs and gloves and there’s a spot for brushes and shoehorns.  The best feature though is its size--large enough for my needs, but too small for anything extraneous.  Closet space can go boil an egg.  

Deep space: 10,000 light years from anything remotely elegant.