Volume Button

Fairly plain matte horn buttons rein in linen--a cloth know for having plenty of character of its own.  

    Choosing buttons for suits and odd coats is no arbitrary task.  The general principle is buttons should harmonize with the cloth they adorn—dark brown and black with dark cloth, pale grey and tan with lighter cloth.  I even have inky blue horn buttons on a navy double breasted suit.  But what if contrast is desired?  Or what if a particularly mottled horn button just looks good on a length of cloth?  Button choice can adjust how conservative or fun a finished garment will be in infinite increments, like a tuning knob on a transistor radio.  I knew this in a vague sort of way, but the concept came sharply into focus on two recent warm weather suits.

    One of these suits has patch hip pockets as well as a patch breast pocket—a first for me.  The cloth is a very handsome light brown, something the merchant has romantically named “Tabac” for its resemblance to Connecticut shade tobacco leaf.  The result is a casual suit, if such a thing any longer registers with people who aren’t clothing enthusiasts, and while this doesn’t bother me, I did want some element to help temper the effect.  Enter buttons. Lighter ones—even something lustrous like mother of pearl—would have been in keeping with the casual cloth and styling of the suit, but restraint won out, and matte horn buttons in a harmonizing shade were chosen.  The suit now clings—by the buttons alone—to some slightly more formal echelon.

The cream and bone tones in these horn buttons bring out the lighter elements of the cloth, including the faint overcheck.  

    Worsted, open-weave wool, commonly known by the trade name Fresco, is a strange beast.  In one sense it is a conservative cloth in familiar blues and grays with limited pattern choice and an almost rough, utilitarian hand.  But a closer look reveals a rich mottling created by the high-twist yarn, an incredible porosity, and a springy resilience better suited to sportswear.  It was the latter rather than the former I wished to emphasize on the other of these two suits.  Once again, buttons suggested themselves as the solution.  Chris Despos and I entertained several options of horn buttons, splashing each across my length of “Derby Gray” Fresco.  It was a waste of time: the clear winner was a highly variegated tan, cream and brown horn usually reserved for odd jackets.  Once installed, the effect was immediate, dispelling any stuffiness of the cloth, edging the suit pleasantly toward the casual side of things.  

    Dialing in the character of a garment with buttons can be an enjoyable aspect of clothing, bespoke or not.  But it can also easily be overthought.  Worse, one can easily become lost in the arcane: where, on the formality scale, do smoked-mother-of-pearl buttons exist in relation to two-hole polished bison horn?  The very best scenario involves a bolt of cloth and bin of buttons.  This might encourage an urge to experiment, but once the novelty has worn off, one learns that buttons can pleasantly contrast, but in most instances should all but disappear.

Look Book

This handsome binder contains all manner of notes, from the sensible (versatile topcoats) to the humiliating (shorts).

    For at least a week, my daughter will not tolerate socks following a summer of sandals and canvas slip-ons, nor will she suffer short-sleeved pajamas when visiting the tropics in the midst of winter.  I can commiserate: there is something particularly unpleasant about putting one’s layered traveling clothes on following a holiday in the sun, and I always feel half naked the first day I step outside in shirtsleeves alone. 

    And yet one of the great pleasures in cultivating a wardrobe is dressing correctly for the weather, and by extension, seasonality.  Nothing quite gets me studying extended forecasts like the prospect of that first brisk day when tweed can be worn.  The same goes for summer, when a breezy 70 is good enough for most linen enthusiasts.  But this principle works in reverse too.  I can barely stand the sight of even my favorite knits come March.  In fact I protest those straggling, unseasonably cold days by reducing my outer-wear rotation to a single uninsulated Barbour from the Ides on, weather be damned.  And come September, suddenly self-conscious of exposed ankles, I have more than once run home to put on socks.

    For the clothing enthusiast, timing is crucial.   A cynic might suggest vanity as the reason, but I suspect a fear of appearing uninformed is also at play.  Of course only someone with similar interests would ever possibly notice that a tweed is worn too early or a linen too late.  Nevertheless, one of the more satisfying moments for an enthusiast is when a purpose-built garment is poised for a seasonal event and its deployment confirms the genius behind its creation.  The challenge is that great ideas for future garments are always forged during the season, and if not commissioned right away for the following year, must wait, a twinkle in the eye, until the opposite season.  In plainer terms: it’s easy to forget what is needed when the weather isn’t cooperating.

    I recommend keeping a journal.  So clear can an idea be during a warm alfresco dinner, or a chilly autumn walk, that I can crisply picture the finished article right down to the buttons.  But if I haven’t made any notes, the proposal seems grown over with vegetation and indistinct by the time seasonal orders should be placed.  Consulting notes has another benefit: they serve as a litmus.  Has your practical tweed cape idea lost some of its brilliance since last winter?  Do unlined ivory suede oxfords seem less important these days?  

    In the wrong hands, this sort of record might prove embarrassing, particularly if, like me, you are given to detail.  But detail is what is needed, so you must either gird yourself for the humiliation or find a good hiding place.  Those near to me already know of (but perhaps don’t understand) my curious interests, so I scribble without fear of exposure.  At the moment I have several good ideas aging in my notes, and this being an open and forgiving forum, I have bravely transcribed them below.  I would be flattered to hear from my readers.

 1)  Double breasted (light) tweed odd jacket in navy with grey windowpane (or reverse).  Possibly with patch pockets and in four-button-two configuration.  Possibly weird buttons.  

 2)  Mahogany (or other reddish brown) pebble-grain derbies in two- or three- eyelet configuration.  Plain toe—possibly squarish.  Double soles?  Natural edge?

 3)  Overcoat of heavy grey herringbone, the wider/bolder the better.  Single or double breasted?  Generous cuffs, and large, convertible collar.

The collection of swatches is inevitable.  Candidates for the herringbone overcoat and double-breasted tweed projects can be seen to the left and right.  

When the Heat is On

London Lounge's Tabac linen... or is that an actual Connecticut shade cigar?

    I’m weak on warm weather suits.  A love of sturdy cloth has left me with few choices on suit-wearing occasions June through September.  I can usually scrape by on linen or cotton trousers, a mid weight blazer and several cool drinks.  Compromise of this sort can be pleasing, but I have been unhappy and creased enough times to do something in the pursuit of suited coolness this year.  Having a somewhat irregular need of suits in general, I based my selections upon the most extreme but still realistic situations I might encounter.  A fairly good strategy, I think.  

    One of the weddings we are attending this year is taking place on a beach in Mexico.  In July.  In the afternoon.  I’m told some of the men will be wearing guayaberas, as is the custom; while handsome, I don’t think my first foray into this traditional shirt should be at a wedding surrounded by its habitual wearers.  Goodness knows what faux pas lurk.  Instead I will play the visiting northerner in his sole well-cut, albeit rumpled, linen suit.  The idea is that while anybody might wilt in the expected conditions, doing so in linen is perfectly acceptable.  

    Chris Despos and I poured over dozens of linen samples before deciding the ten ounce offerings from the London Lounge had the nicest balance of body, porosity and charming irregularity.  The shade is that of Connecticut shade wrapper cigars—a light, golden brown.  This choice was informed by versatility; with three patch pockets and minimal lining the jacket will wear particularly well as a casual separate.  But I admit a certain timidity in the selection as well.  I love cream linen, but a suit of it on the wrong person (me, for instance) can easily seem like a costume.  Maybe in another decade when what’s left of my hair silvers.  

    At the other extreme, I needed a suit that would handle an oppressive day in the city.  This project poses a greater challenge than the beach scenario.  Whereas linen might rely upon an expectation of some rumpling, a creased and bagged worsted suit is always sad.  Instead, the ideal stays crisp, works from day into evening, and never appears obviously casual nor too conservative.  Inspired from one of my own cloth galleries, I settled upon nine ounce Fresco—a high-twist worsted woven to permit good air-flow while remaining virtually wrinkle free.  The winner is a mottled mid-grey with a very subtle windowpane. 

The Fresco, basted, and still several steps removed from having its daring buttons affixed.  Note the patch pockets.  

    I think this cloth ticks most of the boxes, perhaps leaning a tad conservative.  I decided to alleviate any fear of appearing like a banker by employing two design elements: the hip pockets will be patch (the breast remains welt) and the buttons are perhaps two shades lighter than what might be expected on a gray worsted.  The buttons are purely a lark, but the patch pockets, at least in theory, should help keep the suit cool by eliminating some of the guts normally required to suspend a pocket.

    Patch pockets, minimal linings—these, I suppose, are the tricks that make summer suits fun.  But they all point to something I like to think of as the summer suit conundrum: In a proper swelter, anything more than a modal scarf around the waist is uncomfortably hot.  This might seem dispiriting at first—as if relief is just a mirage.  But I’ve learned to find comfort in the idea that the field is even—from guayaberas to linen to smart worsteds—and that coolness is in the eye of the bespeaker.

Diction Matters

"Coriander?  Don't be silly.  The nose on this Syrah is straight norisoprenoid-carotenoid...  amateur."

    The other evening while waiting for the butcher to tenderize some lamb, I noticed the shop’s curious short-hand for describing its stock of wine.  Little placards had been affixed beneath each selection with the following choices: Fruity, Spicy, Earthy, Silky, Flowery, Racy.  Red, white or pink, for each bottle one or several of these terms had been circled.  Other customers happily went about filling their baskets, but I stood contemplatively, suddenly aware of how abstract the task of choosing is.  Of course none of the wines were actually spicy or silken, and what could racy possibly mean—that the wine is partial to skimpy undergarments?

    Of course language only provides two options: the literal and the figurative, and the literal would make for a rather scientific description of esters and volatile compounds.  So we rely upon the figurative to convey the complex experience of wine, which would be fine if we could all agree what earth tastes like.  Wine professionals largely can, and they routinely use familiar figurative terms to accurately conduct their evaluations.  The hobbyist is left to establish his or her own lexicon, and I have never been in a room with two who can agree entirely upon a wine’s profile.  In describing sensory experience, the gray area is vast and even the broadest terms can become unmoored.

    Describing the often ineffable qualities of cloth during the bespoke process presents a similar problem.  In fact, many of the same figurative terms used for wine are tossed about when confronted by cloth bunches: dry, body, crisp, refined.  To some these terms are ironclad and when crossed about what is specifically meant, exchanges can become prickly.  I’ve even perceived discrepancies in meaning of commonly used words amongst professionals.  But this only happens when forced to describe their products for promotional material and such; behind the scenes is the science of cloth-finishing, replete with its own semi-scientific vocabulary, unencumbered by the novice’s notions of drape and durability.  

"Sweet cloth.  No,  I mean dry cloth."  

    The problem in selecting cloth with desirable properties is particularly dependent upon experience: those with it struggle to convey accurate or consistent descriptions to those without, and those without rely too heavily upon the received wisdom of those with.  A vicious cycle if I’ve even seen one—and no doubt responsible for many garments that do not see the light of day.  Some of us novices are fortunate; under the vast experience  of my tailor, Chris Despos, choosing a dog seems very unlikely.

    At the moment, my daughter’s favorite bedtime book is an edited collection of drawings featuring a baby encountering edible and inedible things.  The idea is that the audience should decide whether the thing in question is yummy (corn, for instance) or yucky (earthworms).  Perhaps after the two-hundredth reading the real message occurred to me: acquiring experience is a similarly binary process.  A wine, a cloth, or whatever else is either yummy, or yucky.  Crucially, both is impossible.  The results of your choices—whether strapping Cabernets or mellow Dolcettos, whether gossamer super cloths or dense hopsacks—are what is called preference.  And there it was, hiding in plain site all this time.  

The Desert Island Bunch

    Though the thought gives me mild palpitations, had I to forsake all others in favor of a single cloth bunch, I’m not sure I could do better than the H. Lesser 311 book.  This isn’t one of those far-ranging bunches, like Golden Bale, containing everything from gossamer tropicals through to beefy flannels.  Rather these cloths all fall in around 11 or 12 ounces—a weight the cover deems “lightweight worsteds”—which is on the upper edge of middle-weight cloth by today’s standards.  They don’t feel it though; some combination of weaving and finishing gives these a lighter-than-listed appeal.  

    Fans of British worsteds will almost immediately notice that this bunch lacks the very dry hand characteristic of the genre.  In its place is an elusive softness, a certain broken-in character that, while lacking in crispness, has still retained its guts.  Perhaps this is what much stouter worsteds look like after several years of loving wear?  

    The patterns are classic though: bold pinstripes, subtler rope stripes, faint windowpanes, sharkskins, herringbones and a dizzying array of solids.  The plain and over-checked birdseyes are perhaps the highlight, the weave allowing some extra softness, and the glen checks are sprinkled throughout in perhaps a dozen shades and configurations.  The back of the book contains what I think of as the hobbyist’s corner—a dozen bold and unusual cloths reserved for those whose wardrobes have all the basics deeply covered.  

    The sum?  A comprehensive bunch that is neither too heavy nor too light; neither too crisp nor too soft; neither too conservative nor too wild.  Is this the elusive all-season cloth most enthusiasts agree doesn’t exist?  Has the grail been hiding in plain sight?  Or is this just the right bunch with which to be marooned on a desert island?  Only a dozen suits can decide.

A Pattern Emerges

A herringbone at its subtlest. 

    In addition to having exciting names, variegated cloths, in my experience, make desirable garments.  The distinguishing feature to birdseyes, nailheads, sharkskins and herringbones is that the patterns are a function of weave more than anything else.  This differs from something like a pinstripe or windowpane, in which yarns of a different color contrast with the dominant ground color thereby creating pattern.  Of course a weave-generated pattern can also employ two or more shades, but the effect still tends to be subtle because the scale is small and the density of the contrast high enough that the cloth blends from even a few feet away.

Careful, sharkskins are always sharp.

     This really is what is meant by semi-solid, a confounding expression if I’ve ever heard one.  The term I prefer, variegated, comes with connotations of irregularity, and I think that is correct.  Just as a brick facade might give the impression of a dusty red, random variance in the individual bricks make looking at it interesting.  The eye seems to like recognizing tonal arrangements, particularly when, rather than a flat presentation, some dimension is involved.  Cloth, like bricks, has dimension, and so reflects light in a dynamic way, enticing the eye to steal second and third glances as the effect changes.  Suits in these cloths (particularly at the lighter end of the spectrum) are versatile, tending to look very different from day into evening, seemingly absorbing cues from the surroundings.  In fact, a single-breasted  blue birdseye might be one of the great staple suits.  

    Sadly, the versatility isn't equally distributed.  Herringbones are perhaps alone in so easily crossing between formal and casual applications.  Depending on scale, finish and color, the weave can be found in heavy overcoats, conservative suits, tweed odd jackets—even formal wear.  Birdseyes and Nailheads really only seem to work as worsted suiting, but once made up glide easily from conservative settings to more casual ones depending on shirt, tie and accessories.  They are excellent travel suits for this reason.  Conversely, I can’t imagine sharkskin in anything other than a conservative setting; I’ve seen casual, high-contrast versions, but the effect seems to quarrel with the sober essence of the weave.

A birdseye view.

 Often confused with nailhead, this pindot is a true chameleon, changing from mid-grey in sun to almost charcoal by night.  

    These matters are hard to describe though, and even accurate images won’t honestly convey character.  This is likely why all those apps intended to help coordinate suit, tie and shirt are always a failure; a screen just can’t replicate the liveliness and dimension of real cloth.  Old Apparel Arts issues understood this, often coming with swatch clippings pasted directly to the illustrations.  This is a charming, low-tech solution, but in my experience there is no substitute for spending an hour with a comprehensive cloth book. Just try and keep all those colorful names straight.