An Indvidual Style

I read an article in the WSJ this week that disparaged the concept of #menswear. The phenomenon described is one where (young) men seem to follow blogs and style guides to organize their closets and select their clothes with scant regard to developing a personal style. It produces lockstep legions of men on the streets of every city, uniformly dressed, styled, and accessorized--one strap of their double monk strap shoes left unbuckled, button down collars left unbuttoned, just so cuffed jeans, sport coat sleeve buttons unbuttoned simply as a demonstration that the button holes are functional, rows of beaded bracelets. I could go on.

All of these choices are somewhat precious and are, of course, driven by a set of 'rules' posited by the great and mighty bloggers of #menswear. And I should note here that I do not consider myself a #menswear blogger because, and this is my personal opinion, that what's described in the WSJ article as #menswear is about fads and fashion rather than style; it is overflowing with pretension and guided by spurious rules. Fashion isn't style, it is mimicry of another's style.

But how does one develop an individual style?

I have a friend, a Parisian woman, who described an approach I like very much. She said that her mother taught her to purchase a few high quality, signature pieces that work well together, initially working within a limited palette. In time, as one develops a sense of what works and what doesn't--of what feels comfortable and what feels forced--and there is then a strong foundation closet upon which to add dash and verve with accessories (men, think of more challenging shirt-tie combinations, pocket squares, spotted socks and such). My friend tells me that she's thrilled when she arrives at an event and the host whispers, "I was hoping you would wear that (jupe, chemise, robe, veste, quoi...), it's perfect for you." This strategy stands somewhat at odds to the toss-off purchasing so many Americans engage in, filling their closets to bursting with this month's faddish pieces worn once or twice and forgotten.

Closer to home, we might consider a between the wars approach. If you've been in houses built between the wars (the World Wars....) you've undoubtedly noticed the size of the closets: about a yard square each. This is because most men had a couple suits, an odd jacket and some trousers, and a handful of shirts to put in the closet.

However you approach it, start with a basic load:

--A pair of good suits--Grey, Navy blue....
--A blazer or sport coat--can't go wrong with Navy or Harris Tweed
--Nicer flannel trousers
--Chinos
--Jeans
--A couple of dress shirts
--A couple of Oxford cloth button downs
--A couple of sweaters, maybe a sweatshirt
--A few t-shirts
--A few ties and fewer belts
--Dress shoes--Oxfords, Derbys, or Brogues (lace up)
--Slightly more casual shoes--loafers
--Even more casual shoes--sneakers
--A casual--maybe a Baracuta G9 Harrington or a denim trucker's--jacket
--A trench coat or wool overcoat

At some point you'll need a black suit to wear to funerals and a tuxedo to wear to weddings and on New Years Eve.

Are there actually rules? Well, I suppose there are. Here are some of mine. There is no such thing as a short sleeve dress shirt. Don't be a peacock: If you're out with a woman, never outshine her. If she's wearing a dress, put on a jacket; she has made an effort, you should, too. It's always better to be a little overdressed than a little underdressed. Have your haircut regularly. Wear good shoes and shine them--it's irresponsible not to. Don't wear a hat indoors.

Oh, and one more: Be yourself, everyone else is already taken.

Maine

Ms. F and I spent a week in mid-coast Maine. My first trip up there. This was the view from our local.

Our rental was on the St George River. It sat overlooking a beautiful cove, and the useful parts of the house--kitchen, dining and living rooms, bedrooms--all faced water and oriented due west so we were treated to beautiful sunsets every evening. At night, we could slip on a sweater and sit under the stars. On one evening the International Space Station slid past directly overhead. Beautiful.

The next day we paddled the kayaks around the point and into the next cove. For our trouble we were treated to the sight of six Great Blue Herons. Six.

If there was a downside it was the food. Lobster everywhere, and good farm stands with corn and local vegetables. But at most restaurants, the standard is fried everything (except lobster). Nonetheless, I suspect we'll be back someday.

A Bear

During my second week in the mountains finishing the book, I looked up from the table one morning and saw this:

Yes, that brown line at the bottom of the frame is the window sill. This was the first of two black bears that wandered through that morning. Beautiful but, I must admit, somewhat alarming. Harry was whimpering. I don't think he knew the difference between this bear and a dog.

Long Drive

I've been away from this blog for an inexcusable period of time. Mea culpa. I spent most of the summer engaged in one of three activities: going to the emergency room, finishing a book, on vacation.

I have a contract to produce a memoir that will be published in the spring of 2014. It's called Seriously Not All Right. So I planned to take a couple weeks up in the mountains to finish off the draft of the manuscript; I booked a cabin in the Catskills for two weeks.

The morning before I was supposed to drive up I wound up on the operating table for an emergency appendectomy--I think that's slightly redundant because I suspect all appendectomies are emergencies, but it sounds more dramatic that way so I'll leave it in. That was my second trip to the ER in 30 days. On Memorial Day I was giving a public reading at The Navy Memorial, and my back went out. I bent over to pick up a book, and nearly went all the way to the floor.  It seems I have some degeneration of the discs in my lower back. Evidently, I am not aging gracefully.

Anyway, a couple days after my surgery I was cleared to ride to NY. The doc was pretty funny about driving versus riding, "You can drive once your wife will agree to ride with you." So Ms. F took the time and drove me up. My dog Harry was not impressed with the drive.