All the Moving Parts

What's this flap all about?  

    I can trace my appreciation of menswear to a specific encounter I had around age five.  Though a fragment, the memory is clear: an older man—perhaps an uncle—witnessing my protests and discomfort at being wrestled into jacket and tie for some function, pulled me aside and explained that men wore jackets because of the secret pockets.  These pockets, he explained while pointing out my blazer’s own interior, were for carrying the gadgets required of men: pens, pocket knives, handkerchieves and matches.  He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, now you know.  Thirty years later, the lesson is still with me: clothes aren’t costumes—they are functional garments designed to adapt to a given environment without sacrificing utility or style.

    I no longer carry all the mischievous appurtenances of adolescence.   That learned pleasure in utility has survived, however, in the appreciation of a garment’s useful and functioning details.  The most common example, but one that nevertheless still makes me smile, is the standard flapped pocket.  Most ready-to-wear suits and jackets have flap pockets, likely because they strike the most agreeable balance between the casual patch pocket and the formal flap-less slit pocket found on tuxedoes.  Patch pockets are great sporting details, but why choose between flaps and flap-less for suits?  I always have ordinary flapped pockets; should the urge to give the suit a slightly more formal appearance strike, I neatly tuck the flap.  This seems obvious, silly even, but the effect is not just instantaneous but rather less subtle than it sounds.  With correspondingly formal accessories, tucking flaps really does convert a standard business suit into something special.

    A more rugged detail has long haunted me, falling in and out of favor on roughly imagined future jackets: the throat latch.  I know of two versions.  The first is a detachable, gently curved piece of cloth that buttons out of sight behind the collar and lapel.  When needed, the collar and lapel flip up and the cloth strap is brought across the throat where it buttons to an otherwise hidden button on the underside of the opposite collar.  The other type is more honest: the strap is a permanent and plainly seen extension of the collar that indicates the wearer’s ability to transform his jacket into bonafide outerwear should an unexpected and chilly wind come up.  I prefer the latter; not only is it less fiddly, it gives a jacket so equipped an obvious sporting élan that makes wearing it casually feel so natural.  

Swing low.  

    The subtlest expression of functional adjustment results from a double breasted made with a soft enough lapel.  The most familiar double breasted jacket front has six buttons that show, but only two of them—namely the right-hand lower two—that button.  A man in a double breasted has options.  He can button both middle and lower right-hand buttons or he can leave the bottom undone.  If feeling particularly louche, however, he can button just the bottom-most.  The lapels will roll open to this lowest point, not just exposing more shirt, but creating a long and dramatic sweep, from left shoulder to right hip.  It is a vintage look, and probably better reserved for after-hours.  And while it might seem too deep in the domain of the dedicated clothing enthusiast to be related to that long-ago memory of function, the premise remains: clothing should adapt to the wearer and not the other way around.

    But why does function appeal?  In a basic sense, it multiplies the usefulness of any given garment—more looks for the price of one.  Patterned and textured three piece suits operate on this principle, affording three separates or one very coordinated application.  But I think there is a deeper appeal: when a garment can be operated beyond ordinary wear, it gains a sort of permanence in contradistinction to fashion, which often just impersonates utility.  How many designers have sewn on useless straps, pockets and zippers in the name of lending their clothes authenticity?  The technique never works; a false pocket is false from a thousand yards.  But when all the details found on a garment not just function but provide real utility, the effect is universally handsome.  Surely if form must follow function, so too must fashion.

Where It All Comes Together

    The meeting of lapels on a single breasted jacket invites a handful of similes, too many, in fact, to choose a single one for describing this important conjunction.  What’s wrong with multiple similes anyway?  Who am I to quarrel with Langston Hughes and his drying raisins and syrupy sweets etc.?  And so I offer three rather less elegant examples with the hope of creating a figurative ideal of what, to my mind, seems the most important aspect of a tailored coat.  

    A good buttoning point is singular, like a correctly placed fulcrum.  Higher or lower ones can happen, but at the risk of ruining balance.  Today’s fashionable suits often button near the sternum which has the effect of creating large hips and a rather sunken chest.  The opposite, very low buttoning points, join the jacket right over the stomach, emphasizing even the slightest paunch.  Where is the correct buttoning point?  Depends on the person, but generally at the narrowest point between the hips and chest—the natural waist.  For me this occurs slightly above my navel.  

Plenty of body.

    Like mouth-filling wine, a good lapel has body.  It rolls rather than lays flat, ripples rather than creases and springs back when crushed.  In short, it has life.  The five inches of lapel above a buttoned coat is probably the most significant difference between readymade and handmade. Extraordinary effort goes into creating the effect, first cutting a shapely lapel which will enhance the dimension, then hand-stitching the cloth to the canvass creating an ineffable dynamism, and, finally, by pressing-in shape.  A good lapel has memory; a great one seems semi-conscious.

    The lower quarters should fall away as deciduous leaves—naturally and quietly.  Those that cut dramatically to the sides revealing too much trouser are performing, over-emphasizing a slim waist to the detriment of the whole.  Those that plummet straight down seem sad in their smock-like concealment.  There is of course no ideal here, and certain regional styles call for open or closed quarters.  I’m happy if a jacket looks like it could close (which, of course, it ever should), with slight overlap near the bottom button but decidedly rounded corners to the hem.  

Mr. Hughes sidesteps the matter by opting for a DB.  

    Mediocre similes aside, the placement, body and shapes found where a single breasted jacket joins are vital to the overall silhouette.  Adjustments here are also usually impossible; they must be cut into the garment from the start. Bespoke offers this flexibility, but the client must be specific (or quiet while the tailor gets things correct).  The greater difficulty is in ready-to-wear, where the overall fit might be good, but only one or two of the three above elements ideal.  In this instance, I might offer a few more Langston Hughes lines:

“I got the Weary Blues

And I can’t be satisfied.

      Got the Weary Blues

   And can’t be satisfied…”

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.

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.

Blue Wrapsody

The party DB at the basted stage.

    The first few months of any new year is when wedding invitations (or at least save-the-dates) start appearing, and so far a number of hefty ones have been plonked down in our mailbox.  We are honored, of course, but there are those of a certain disposition whose minds almost immediately turn to dress and whether or not the old wardrobe can accommodate.  When one considers the variables involved—location, time of year, time of day, venue—the wedding can quickly become a challenging event for the clothes-conscious guest.

    But the real moment of pause occurs when scanning the remainder of the invitation one encounters an opaque phrase like Formal.  In the classic sense, formal means nothing short of white tie and tails.  Common sense (or unfortunate experience) suggests this isn’t what’s meant, so one may consider the tuxedo.  This is usually also incorrect; in the US the F word refers to a suit.  When Black tie is Suggested, Encouraged, Optional or indeed anything short of Required, most men wear suits.  In any case, phone calls are inevitably made between guests and eventually the bride herself, or her mother, will intervene.  This is too bad; there was a time when people just knew.

    I like a black tie wedding, but the truth is they are going the way of morning dress weddings in the US.  There is practicality to consider—most ceremonies take place in the early afternoon when tuxedoes aren’t correct—but the real reasons have more to do with an increasingly casual culture, and, to a lesser extent, fear of appearing elitist.

    For those with a greater sense of occasion, however, all is not lost.  One may choose to wear a suit styled with more formal details.  At the top of this category is probably a dark three piece with peaked lapels.  If the waistcoat is double breasted, the effect would be particularly grand.  This suit is perhaps one notch below the tuxedo, and for some, that may just be the problem as its relative formality reduces its utility.  For me, a double breasted in a plain or subtle self-weave seems a smarter choice, ideally in navy for its ability to appear rich, subdued and celebratory in equal parts.  And double breasted, for that configuration’s ability to appear formal and somewhat undone at the same time, something that must stem from the classical tension between the wrapped asymmetry and symmetrical buttons.  

    Now this is not a novel idea, but what separates a standard navy suit from the consummate party suit is the cloth. The right shade of navy is crucial.  Dark, true navies always look smart but can seem too severe in the afternoon.  A navy that has been permitted to retain more blue is better, as long as one doesn’t cross the invisible line that divides navies from blues.  How to know?  One must spend hours comparing similar swatches in every conceivable way until one is certain of the differences.  No, really.

    Chris Despos (my tailor) and I spent three full hours with what the casual observer would have noted were dozens of near identical swatches of navy suiting.  We ran between, dim, artificial and natural lighting.  We set several up about the room to determine how each rendered at varying distances.  I held many against my skin while gazing silently into a mirror like some vain pantomime.  It was a trying experience, but just when I thought I was losing grasp of the objective, my awareness of the subtleties suddenly peaked, and before me no longer lay countless scraps of navy cloth but a handful of real contenders whose differences where as dramatic as a book of tartan plaids.

    The winning cloth is a rich navy in a fine twill from H. Lesser’s Lumbs Golden Bale.  The cloth is a solid navy, although the subtle diagonal rib lends a certain surface interest, and the depth of color is extraordinary.  Some may take issue with the weight (10/11 ounces) considering this suit will often be worn in the summer, but I feel that is a small tariff considering the benefits of drape and longevity.  I fully expect to be wearing this suit in fifteen years.  Of course what conventional wedding dress will look like then is anyone’s guess.

The party DB relaxing before an evening out.

Splitsville

Mated for life: this conservative mid-gray sharkskin suit would never work as separates.  Well, the trousers might stray.  

    If what to do with black loafers is at the top of the list of contentious menswear issues, a few rungs below is surely the hot debate surrounding when, if ever, the splitting of a suit is appropriate.  And as spring suggests itself as more than a vague concept, the debate is hotting up.

    The premise—that the issue is binary—is the problem.  I like instead to imagine a casual/formal spectrum, for which all matters of cloth, color, texture, details and historical precedent are accounted.  The further to the left the suit in question falls, the more successful the divorce; the further to the right, the better most do paired for the duration.  

    For instance, a donegal tweed suit featuring a coat with patch pockets and mottled horn buttons will stray from its trousers without a second thought.  The trousers, too, are easily worn odd.  By contrast, a dark blue worsted suit with jetted pockets and navy buttons flounders if split, the jacket (because of its details) not quite a blazer, the trousers (because of the sobriety of the cloth) rather limited.  

    Life would be simple if all suits so easily revealed their character.  But because several factors dictate formality most aren’t as obviously categorized as the above two examples.  A dark gray worsted suit with flap pockets and black buttons remains bound to its trousers—a forsaken, non-garment without them, like a single sock.  But I’m afraid the trousers aren’t quite as true, readily making themselves available to any number of outfits, from sweaters to navy blazers.  That’s just the inherent personality of gray trousers.  One-sided love is always this cruel. 

    And then there are suits where one suspects either party could stray, although it remains unclear how enthusiastically.  The Glorious Twelfth book I highlighted several days ago is packed with cloths with wandering, albeit, unsure, tendencies.  They are worsted cloths (more formal) made to look like tweeds (casual).  Some have more surface interest (casual); some are almost solid (formal); others are boldly patterned (casual).  With these types of cloths split-ability really boils down to styling, and the customer must be clear in his intentions from the outset, or risk being burdened by a suit that is neither here nor there.   

    Some clothes enthusiasts commission navy suits with gadgets like swappable buttons in brass and horn with the hopes that this may mollify any marital disharmony between top and bottom when worn apart.  The idea may seem appealing, but I question whether  all the fiddling that must go on behind the scenes doesn’t deflate any prospect of real progress.  

    My laxest suit is a three-piece in a lovely glen plaid flannel, purpose-built for maximum adaptability.  My tailor, Chris Despos, and I discussed the configuration and the cloth extensively, before settling upon a fairly obvious formula.  I kept the details straightforward—no sport-inspired patch pockets or swelled edges—relying entirely upon the cloth’s fuzzy nap and bold pattern to permit the components their individual freedom.  The trousers work very well on their own beneath cashmere sweaters, or even as an alternative to plain flannels with a blazer.  The vest too looks good worn odd, especially around the holidays.  The jacket, with its usual suit configuration, is the most difficult separate, although it does compliment darker gray flannels.  But if scandal is the goal—if I want little old ladies to faint in the street and strict traditionalists to waggle their canes in my direction—I wear it with a good pair of dark denim jeans.

Menage-a-trois: this glen-plaid three piece flannel is as likely to spend the night apart as together.  

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.

Cloth Between Brothers

The navy suit in question, made of Lesser 13 ounce hopsack. 

Several years ago, in the intimate ballroom of Manhattan’s Carlyle Hotel, I stood and delivered a best’s man’s speech to the guests of my older brother’s wedding reception.  It was a mixed crowd; a younger set expected the groom to be well roasted; the aristocratic forehead of the Bride’s father, prominent and frightening even from a distance, reminded me, however, that his friends filled a majority of the seats and they expected banal brevity lest the consommé cool.

 I found my solution in my inbox.  For the better part of the previous year my brother and I had exchanged dozens of emails concerning the commissioning of a dinner jacket for the occasion. This had not been an ordinary exchange.  My brother is rather particular, and as even a casual reader here may gather, I too have my opinions.  Among other preferences, my brother does not tolerate any cloth that even remotely itches.  He wishes to be swathed in gossamer, and though I do not understand the compulsion, and tried mightily to sway him toward stouter stuff, it was his wedding, not mine.  

 And so what developed was a semi-technical exchange concerning microns and mohair, barathea and grosgrain, peaks and shawls--the sort of discussion to which anybody who doesn’t count themselves as a clothing enthusiast might raise an eyebrow.  My brother’s illustrative written style made my job easy when it came time to deliver the speech; why tell jokes when direct quotations, delivered in a controlled deadpan, prove far funnier?  

 At the heart of this light-hearted moment though is a debate about cloth.  The opposing camps could not be clearer: the majority seeks the finest, lightest and most ethereal cloths, whatever the cost, whereas a small but vocal minority rejects the modern efforts in favor of heavier, drier and more durable suit-stuff.  In many ways, it is the familiar “new” versus “old” debate in which one side (from behind German, rimless glasses) suggests technological innovation and the other (briar clenched between teeth) bloviates about longevity and tradition.  In short, I love my brother but he has despicable taste in cloth.  I imagine he would say the same of me.

I suppose wool itself must shoulder some of the blame.  It really is too versatile for it’s own good.  Italian firms in particular can make worsted suiting of such fineness one might easily confuse it for sheer linen.  Conversely, I have held 18 ounce semi-milled worsteds that might prove useful should one suddenly need to refinish a wooden skiff.  Confusing things is price.  Fine super cloths can be very expensive; the ready-wear market pushes suits in these cloths as luxury items and charges accordingly.  Of course a suit made of quality heavy British worsted is also an expensive item, albeit not one adopted by the ready-wear market.  There is another layer of complexity too: proponents on either side have launched propaganda campaigns.   One side suggests anything heavier than eight ounces is obsolete since the advent of central heating; the other responds with tales of split trousers and sleeves being ripped clean off by a determined enough breeze.  

The first suit Chris Despos made for me began life as a navy blazer.  I had wanted something sturdy for travel and weekly wear and had considered cloths from twists to serges.  I settled eventually upon a 13 ounce hopsack from Lesser’s 303 book.  The swatch seemed magical, rebounding from however I crumpled it in my hand and had a deceptive sort of weight at once greater and less than what the book’s cover indicated.  I’m not  sure we made it to a second fitting before we decided to add trousers.

 I realize opinion on a 13 ounce, densely woven hopsack suit might be divided.  It would positively send my brother to the funny farm.  But I must admit an obsession with the garment.  The depth of color is remarkable, managing to be unmistakably navy and not black or blue, a fate many a “navy” suit suffers.  The subtle weave is dead-matte in daylight, with enough surface interest to seem at home with madder, knit or woolen neckties.  It transforms at night, though, when that surface awakens with lustrous depth and richness enough to set off the sheen of foulard and satin.  Most importantly though it feels to me like a suit of clothes rather than a set of pajamas, a quality that should not be dismissed considering this suit has become my favored choice for more serious affairs where one might appreciate not feeling so exposed.  

Speaking of pajamas, a few months after his own wedding my brother was invited to an old friend's own nuptials, another Brit living in New York.  He was looking forward to the event until he learned the bride wished the groomsmen to wear morning suits.  My brother has lived in the States too long to necessitate morning clothes and so was compelled, along with five other saddened individuals, to rent.  On the day, the itch from the burlap-like cloth became so severe he felt he had no choice but to stop at a mid-town discount mall and purchase flannel pajamas which, despite a high in the mid-80s, he wore beneath for the duration.  

 Oh how I wish I had that gem the night of my speech.

Texture and depth: just two of the benefits of heavier cloth.