Gucci In Silentium

Southwick Chalk Stripe in Focus

A close-up of my favourite suit, a single-breasted, two-button navy chalk stripe number by Southwick. As you know, I have a thing for Southwick. This is the undarted Plymouth model. I acquired it more than ten years ago at Van Driver, a men's store in Greenwich that sadly is now closed. It is too heavy for all but the coldest months in Southern California. I pair it with shirts with spread collar, foulard ties, and black half brogues or tassel loafers. Deservedly or not, this is the standard by which I measure the other items in my collection.

¡Viva España!

Congratulations to the Spanish team for the Euro 2008 Championship.

Wine Appreciation Society

Is wine-drinking an art or a calling? In my case, the latter, decidedly so. After all I have spent more than twenty-two years pursuing it. Although I have taken innumerable wine courses and as a result can explain the difference between claret and burgundy with ease, I would much rather drink wine than study it, or even talk about it. "Ought we to be drunk every night?", asks Charles. It is a question I have answered in the affirmative, like Sebastian, for the last several years. Currently I am sampling the wines from Argentina, having exhausted South Africa and Chile. As I have mentioned previously, my drinking days are nearing an end.

Quiet Life (Japan)

On the Tea Table

Madras Friday

On these gloomy mornings, when a spot of colour is required, I turn to madras. Pride of place in my portfolio belongs to a pair of Berle flat-front shorts. Easily the most comfortable shorts I own. The rare candid photograph (above) depicts the madras shorts, a pink Brooks Brothers slim-fit OCBD, and a battered pair of Sperry Topsiders. I don't know about you, but I typically do not tuck in my shirt whilst wearing madras shorts; in fact I usually just don a white polo. The weather today should clear up well before lunch time, at which point I should be somewhere in downtown Laguna Beach, FT and G&T in hand, watching the tourists. If you happen to be in the area, do join me for a drink and we can discuss the important matters of the day. Suffice it to say, I do not have any client meetings today.

Southwick Houndstooth

A photo of a black and white houndstooth Southwick sport jacket from Culwell & Son. I acquired it during a visit to Dallas in 1996 to see a girlfriend studying at the Cox School of Business at Southern Methodist University. The jacket was one of two significant souvenirs from that trip, the other being a wrecked heart that has long since mended. Young love can be capricious and so my affections quickly moved on, yet the jacket remains. Even today, I can not part with it. I wear it rarely, to be frank, and only rediscovered it last year lurking at the back of my closet like a red-headed stepchild. But when I do, I pair it with a white dress shirt, charcoal flannels, and black Alden tassel loafers. I realise this is an unimaginative look, so I am open to suggestions.

Somali Love-Poem

If I set myself to write
Of the love that holds my heart
A wondrous great kitab
Could not contain it all.

I long for thee as one
Whose dhow in the kherif
Is blown adrift and lost
In the grey and empty sea.

The curving of my breasts
Like apples sweet and small
Are thine to caress
When night turns dusk to dawn.

Then lay between these breasts
And call thy life fulfilled.
And never be denied
This well of happiness.

Poem written by young Somali woman to her English lover (1940s)

The Transvaal, South Africa

In the course of my wanderings around Southern Africa in the late '90s, I met a young man who lived with his family at the foot of the Soutpansberg mountains in the Transvaal in South Africa. Jannie was 21, with long blonde hair, and managed the family farm. Discovering I was from London, he said he wanted to immigrate there for work. He grew up on his uncle's farm. His uncle was an eccentric who liked to hide in the bushes and take pot shots at the black farm workers with a homemade slingshot. The family kept as a pet a tame warthog which they had raised from a piglet. The warthog behaved just like a dog, chewing on an old tire hanging from a tree and swinging from it by its teeth. It also chased cars, the sound of which would cause it to run clickety-clack into the kitchen, its little hooves invariably slipping out from under it as it slid on its back across the smooth wooden floor. It was eventually run over by one of the big 18-wheeler trucks rolling north towards Zimbabwe.

Tweed in Chair

A Beautiful Heaven

"The average age for a man in the Bronze Age was eighteen. In the Roman era, twenty-two. Heaven must have been beautiful then. Today it must look dreadful. When a man reaches forty, he has no chance to die beautifully. No matter how he tries, he will die of decay. He must compel himself to live."

A Life In Four Chapters, Yukio Mishima

Flemish Nationalist Style

A snaphot of Gerolf Annemans, an officer of the Vlaams Belang party in Belgium, wearing a bow tie, checked shirt, and navy blazer. Unlike Mr. Annemanns, I am not partial to bow ties; indeed I have been specifically requested not to wear one. Exhibiting a bow tie, one could argue, can be construed as a controversial, even radical, act in today's sartorial environment. However, it is images such as this one that cause me to reconsider.

Out Of The Blue (Roxy Music)

Gucci Snaffle-Bit Sensations

Whenever I hear the phrase light in the loafers, I can only assume the speaker is referring to my Gucci snaffle-bit loafers. These shoes are a true friend. I have been wearing Gucci loafers in one form or another since I was a very young man.

During my Sloane Ranger years in London, they were a mainstay of my weekend uniform. My chums and I wore them to pubs and clubs. Gucci snaffle-bit loafers, I think, have a certain brand distinction and jet-set reputation, but they are also renowned for being the footwear of choice for Eurotrash. Whatever the case, they certainly have their admirers. Several years ago I donned Gucci snaffle-bit loafers for a jaunt to the Upper East Side of Manhattan with a university friend to pick up a Raoul Millais painting for an art collector client. The sight of my shoes apparently so moved the owner, a fashionable Middle Eastern woman, that we negotiated a significantly lower price.

The classic Gucci snaffle-bit loafer features red-and-green webbing under the hardware, as the photo (above) illustrates. The Gucci loafers in my shoe portfolio are black suede with a lug sole. They are still going strong after almost ten years. Last night, I can report, I wore my Gucci loafers to a photo shoot in Laguna Beach. And this morning, I am still cleaning the sand out of them.

Riding Boot Porn

Bruce Chatwin Preppy Chic

The English writer Bruce Chatwin (1940-1989) was a devotee of OCBD shirts, which numerous photos can verify. I include just two here, including one featuring him in an OCBD and tick-weave jacket with a 3/2 roll. The other shows him in a white OCBD and boat shoes. A masterful writer and engaging character, he is missed.

A Thing For Pink

Pink is my signature colour. If you consult my family and associates, you will discover I am known for my pink shirts. Brooks Brothers OCBDs, to be exact. I own three in the non-non-iron, slim fit style. In certain circles, these shirts are a veritable icon. For me, they are like a second skin.

Pink has long featured in my portfolio. As a young man I wore pink OCBDs and polo shirts from Lacoste and Polo until they fell apart. In fact, I still do. In the banking world of London and New York, I often wore pink dress shirts, usually with a spread collar and double cuffs, as did many of my colleagues.

I find pink striking and conservative at the same time. It complements my blue eyes and skin tone, especially in the summer when I develop a dark tan. My shirts generally receive a positive reception, particularly from women who seem to appreciate pink the most. The women in my life, I have found, actively encourage me to wear pastel colours such as pink, and to grow my hair long. For some men, however, pink is a controversial choice, especially on the West Coast where dark, somber tones such as black and grey predominate in business settings. I occasionally receive curious glances from them when I wear my pink shirts. But, outright hostility is rare. Recently, while queuing for a cup of tea at a local tea shop, I was bemused to overhear a confused little girl ask her mother why a boy was wearing a pink shirt.

In my closet, pink is not limited to just shirts. I occasionally don a well-worn pair of pink twill shorts from Vineyard Vines. And should you rummage round my wardrobe, you will uncover a pair of pink cashmere socks from Paul Stuart. In addition, I will admit, I also have two pairs of pink boxer shorts, whose colour is a result of a laundry mishap.

I wear the pink if not with pride, then with an insouciance borne of experience and trial.

Sockless Wonders

As you know, when the summer season finally arrives, I greet it like a happy puppy. And that means going sockless. Warm weather is a perfect time to de-accessorise. I often can be spotted this time of year going bareback in a pair of horsebit loafers, tassel loafers, Weejuns, or boat shoes. Of course, my feet sometimes attract looks from passersby, but I like to imagine they are admiring my tanned and shapely ankles.
Just recently, during an outing to a neighbourhood dining establishment, I went sockless whilst wearing a pair of black Gucci horsebit loafers and charcoal worsted trousers. I concede, maybe this was a step too far, as my dining companion vigorously chided me over the ommission. But, I simply can not help it. When I slide my naked foot inside a warm loafer, the sensation of leather on skin heats my blood and invokes memories of ivory sands and azure seas.

In the Afterlight

"You all know the wild grief that besets us when we remember times of happiness. How far beyond recall they are, and we are severed from them by something more pitiless than leagues and miles. In the afterlight, too, the images stand out more enticing than before; we think of them as we do of the body of a dead loved one who rests deep in the earth, and who now in his enhanced and spiritual splendour is like a mirage of the desert before which we must tremble. And constantly in our thirst-haunted dreams we grope for the past in its every detail, in its every line and fold. Then it cannot but seem to us as if we had not had our fill of love and life; yet no regret brings back what has been let slip. Would that this mood might be a lesson to us for each moment of our happiness.

Sweeter still becomes the memory of our years by moon and sun when their end has been in the abyss of fear. Only then do we realise that for us mortals even this is great good-fortune - to live our lives in our little communities under a peaceful roof, with pleasing discourse and with loving greeting at morning and at night. Alas! always too late do we grasp that, if it offered no more than this, our horn of plenty brimmed with riches."

On The Marble Cliffs, Ernst Jünger

No Regrets (The Walker Brothers)

Ian Fleming Chic

A brief tribute to Ian Fleming, in his centenary year. As a schoolboy I developed an imperishable curiosity about him. I spent hours perusing Fleming first editions in the book shops off Tottenham Court Road in London. I devoted one summer to reading every Bond novel and Fleming biography I could lay my hands on. The Hollywood glitter of the Bond movie franchise failed to impress me.
Fleming was noted for his dark blue suits and bow ties. He was one of those men who settles on one style and sticks with it. On his estate in Jamaica, he wore unusual belted shirt affairs. My favourite Fleming photos show him in Jamaica wearing a plaid shirt and khaki shorts. Of course, for me, it was not his clothing but his life that inspired.

Epic Englishman

Some men love people. Others have a fondness for things. And then there are those who love places most of all. I think the English explorer Wilfred Thesiger (1910-2003) probably fell into the last category. Born in Abyssinia (Ethiopia) and educated at Eton and Oxford, Thesiger spent a lifetime exploring Africa, the Middle East, and Central Asia. His many books, such as Arabian Sands (1959) and Marsh Arabs (1964), are testament to his wanderings and keen insights. He was a talented photographer. Thesiger twice crossed the Empty Quarter of the Arabian peninsula by foot and camel. An aristocrat who maintained a flat in Chelsea and who wore impeccable three-piece suits and tweed jackets from Savile Row, he sympathised strongly with savage peoples untouched by modernity. I highly recommend his outstanding autobiography, A Life of My Choice (1987). Great and unsusual men like Thesiger are increasingly rare in a shrinking, homogenised world. I doubt we will ever see his kind again.

A Time of Cufflinks

There was a time several years ago, in London and New York, when I wore double-cuffed shirts almost constantly. Not only to the office, but to the pub as well. With suits, khakis, moleskins, and jeans. Often without a tie. In casual situations I wore silk knots. On dressier occasions, a pair of sterling silver knots. I never gave it much thought. Most of my colleagues and friends on Wall Street and in the City did the same. Later, I entered a phase where I thought double-cuffed shirts and cufflinks were awkward, and I eschewed them. The phase has passed, I am pleased to report, and I am again wearing the cufflinks that I squirreled away in leather boxes in my closet years ago. Today, I would be thrilled beyond words if someone were to present me a gift of vintage cufflinks from Turnbull & Asser.

Cool Shirtings: The Unwearable Lightness of Cotton Lawn

In hot weather, my thoughts turn to cool shirtings. My summer shirt portfolio features polo shirts, short-sleeved madras shirts, checked shirts, and a variety of twill bush shirts that have been in my possession for years. I pair them with different combinations of khaki shorts, reds, boat shoes, and loafers.

With the impending summer season in mind, I recently undertook to acquire a traditional aloha shirt, the Reyn Spooner model offered by J.Press (above). However, much to my alarm, I discovered it is made of something called Spooner Kloth, a nefarious blend of 60% cotton/40% polyester. Now, I never, ever let synthetic fiber touch my skin, unless of course it is a vinyl, latex, or PVC bodysuit encasing the svelte charms of a hot brunette.

When I contacted the chaps at the Reyn Spooner company, they suggested I try the same shirt in 100% cotton lawn, or lawn cloth. I was intrigued. Named after the town of Laon, France where it was first manufactured, cotton lawn is a crisp, sheer, ultra-lightweight fabric used for curtains, liturgical clothing, and dresses. According to my research, however, its opaque, semi-transparent properties make it ideal for women's underwear and lingerie, rendering it completely unsuitable therefore for a grown man to wear.

If you see me going about my daily weekend activities in a summer shirt of madras or twill, spare a thought for what might have been and take heed.

A Suit of Tartan

My wardrobe includes a pair of tartan trousers in a Black Watch pattern. An autumn and winter garment, tartan pants look wonderful with a blue OCBD, turtleneck sweater, and black tassel loafers. For me tartan trousers evoke memories of winter cocktail parties with the neighbours in Greenwich or New Canaan, sipping a whisky in front of the fire and making small talk with the cute Wellesley grad who works in M&A. I would like to acquire a tartan suit similar to the one in the photo (above), but I suspect it would only look complete with turban, beard, and sabre.

Socks of Colour & Light

Around this time of year I make a special effort to wear socks in bright colours. Hosiery in red, pink, lemon yellow, sky blue, and lime green are guaranteed to turn heads and raise eyebrows. You might even get a favourable comment or two, as I generally do from older women, who, I try to convince myself, use the socks as an excuse to flirt.

Socks are a superb way to add a flash of colour to an otherwise drab outfit. It is an opportunity to be creative. For strictly casual situations I have been known to wear motif socks. Recently I received three pairs of motif socks as gifts: navy J.Crew socks with a green anchor pattern, and tan Tommy Bahama socks with martini glass and palm tree motifs. Very silly, I know.

As a younger man I bought my coloured socks from Hackett. Now, I go to Paul Stuart, Smart Turnout, and Brooks Brothers. Just yesterday, in fact, I met some important clients for lunch at the Ritz Carlton in Laguna Niguel wearing a pair of Paul Stuart sky blue socks with my Alden tassel loafers, J.Press sport coat in a tan check pattern, charcoal worsted trousers, and white OCBD. Over salad and salmon, and a bottle of Beringer chardonnay, we discussed the importance of asset allocation and portfolio diversification. I am happy to report, my socks received a favourable reception and blended in perfectly with the view of ocean and sky. They may even have helped seal the deal.

Drinking Jacket

Drinking is a ritual, I like to think, with unspoken sartorial traditions. When I began my drinking career in London at age 15, my imbibing attire consisted of standard Sloane kit: jumpers, Barbour jacket, Viyella shirts, double-cuffed dress shirts, jeans, cords, moleskin trousers, black chelsea boots, and horsebit loafers. Over the years I settled on two or three favourite sport coats to fulfill the role of drinking jacket, or, when I reached for a cigar, smoking jacket. I imagine I have spilled more drinks down my front than most people consume in a lifetime. However, today, I feel my drinking days are nearing an end, and before long I shall have to designate a new function for my odd jackets. The chelsea boots have long been retired.

Weejun Love

Many aspire, few achieve. When it comes to loafers, however, the Weejun penny loafer can be counted amongst the latter. First introduced in 1936 by G.H. Bass & Co., who derived the name and moccasin design from Norwegian shoes, it became popular with the prep school crowd and college students. It is an American classic.

On a recent visit to a G.H. Bass & Co. retail establishment, I picked up a pair of loafers in burgundy. Weejuns and I go way back. In fact I recall a family photograph depicting me age 8 or 9, wearing Weejuns with tan cords, argyle socks, and a Shetland crewneck sweater. During summer holidays in Connecticut and New York I wore them almost constantly, usually without socks. I took them seriously. On boating and fishing expeditions to Ontario or the Thousand Islands, rows would ensue with my chums over the comparative merits of the brown versus the black Weejun. Which colour was 'cool'?

Back in England, where the footwear of choice amongst my schoolmates was an English-style black loafer from New & Lingwood, I added the Weejun penny loafer to my collection, replenished thereafter by regular visits to J.Simon in Covent Garden. My Weejuns attracted notice wherever I went. During one of my first visits to Kenya in East Africa, where I liked to imagine Hemingway once wore the Weejun, a brand new pair of penny loafers disappeared from my tent one night.

Today, though tempted at times by similar offerings from firms such as Alden and J.M. Weston, I remain loyal to G.H. Bass. I still wear Weejuns in casual settings. There are few pleasures in life that can match the sheer joy of going out for the morning paper and a cup of tea in a blue OCBD shirt, khaki shorts, and a pair of old Weejuns.

The allure of these shoes only grows stronger over time. I experience it daily. Each morning, as I prepare my clothing for the day and reach for a pair of brogues or tassel loafers, my hands are drawn as if by an unseen force to the loafers from G.H. Bass. Such is the power of the Weejun.

Avant de nous dire adieu (Jeane Manson)