To travel. To arrive.
Posted: Mon Aug 15, 2011 12:17 am
"It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive. True contentment derives from the doing of something, not its end point. Anticipation is often more exciting than the event itself". (Robert Louis Stevenson)
I like RLS - I really do - so I'm pleased that he didn't frame his famous aphorism in absolute terms. There is, I do admit, a certain and profound pleasure in expectation- but it is surely tempered with a light dressing of worry that things won't turn out quite as you hoped. I'm presently in a state of some anticipation, but I think I will be more comfortable 'on arrival'.
Let me explain, or at least try. These things should be so straightforward, but they aren't: and maybe that's part of the fun.
I need a suit, no really I do. We all do, I know, but this I need not only to satisfy my personal sartorial ambitions, but also to answer the demands of my vocation. So that's my excuse and I'll stick with it.
'Vocation' might be overdoing it a little (since I changed career in my 30's) but I first trained as an agriculturalist and studied estate management resulting ultimately in a professional qualification. Studying was the first step, but if you've ever tried getting payment out of a farmer, you'll realise why I changed tack after a few years in practice. As a field of study, however, it has much to commend it, not the least of which is the tradition that on qualification, you obtain a suitable tweed suit in which to ply your skills.
My qualification suit was off the peg but, since my parents bought it for me, its sentimental value was paramount. Strangely, it seems to have shrunk in the wardrobe after 20 years (!) so I need a replacement.
I think I ought to explain that I love the concept of bespoke. I think that advances in mass produced clothing have given the developed world the best quality and fit of formal clothing it has ever had and yet we choose live in the age of leisurewear. Bespoke tailoring is the perfect antidote to this unfortunate and, no doubt, unintended consequence. A unique garment resulting from the exercise of high level manual skills, natural fabrics and evolutionary design is surely the highest expression of clothing in civilised society.
Yet I cannot get overworked by some aspects that exercise certain aficionados : many seams can probably be better sewn with a machine than by hand. What counts, to my mind, is the love of craft that a tailor puts into his or her work and that shows through in the finished article. If that is so, then I have found my perfect tailor. A gentleman now in his 70's, of Italian heritage, works alone in the shop he opened over 40 years ago. All his work is his own work and his style is recognisable. His cost is about a quarter of SR, but so far as I can convince myself, I would more happily spend an hour in his little shop piled high with oddments of cloth, faded postcards and photos spanning a career, than I would a whole day in a panelled emporium in the West End.
He has made me many garments and all of them are excellent in my eye. So a tweed suit? Where else would I dream of going. The only snag being peculiar to that fabric generally - it is very hard to imagine a finished suit from a small swatch of fabric, particularly when a substantial check pattern is involved. I was therefore inclined to take my time and think it through.
In theory, this must be the answer. But Im not sitting in theory, I'm sitting in my study. And the permutations of cut, let alone pattern or weight, are multiplying like a colony of rabbits listening to looped Barry White albums.
Back to basics then: I determined to choose the best cloth, based on comfort and durability, to match the environment in which the suit will be worn. In this case, a suit for business use - worn all day a few times a month, getting in and out of cars and spending quite a lot of time in unheated buildings and outside. In my amateur assessment this meant something of the order of 14-16 oz, but I was determined to see the cloth in its full glory, the better not only to gauge the pattern, but also to try to judge its permeability. My 'old' tweed suit is very heavy but quite permeable, and so is fairly comfortable in most cooler climates. It is also particularly prone to creasing, but I'm guessing this is due to a quality compromise in a RTW garment.
I chanced to be in Regent Street a few weeks ago, at the south end of which is a shop specialising in the sale of cloth, mainly to tourists. They do a fine trade in tartans and cashmeres, but also stock a wide range of 'proper' suiting cloth, so this was my chance to see some decent lengths of tweed. I wasn't disappointed, they came up with a selection in an appropriate weight and I decided that my point about the futility of selecting tweed from small swatches seemed borne out.
I wasn't entirely convinced about my narrowed choice of 2 cloths, so ducked out of the shop but not before noting that they were both products of W Bill. Mental note to self : track down W Bill (surely they have a shop front?) and perhaps compare a wider range - and do this in time for my next visit to London a week later.
An address was easy enough to track down and it was close to where I'd be on my next trip. The afternoon of my visit I tried to find it; bearing in mind that New Burlington St is only about 50 yards long, you'd suppose it would be easy to find. It wasn't. And to cap it all it turned out to be the 'warehouse' - a slightly odd term for a subterranean vault down 2 flights of stairs and with no natural light.
In retrospect, I was more than fortunate to have been given access: these are not retail premises, rather they are the heart of a busy operation despatching lengths of cloth to the far corners of the world (and around the corner to Savile Row) and I was conscious that I was getting in the way of their working day. The place is however completely fascinating, packed to the ceiling, literally, with bolts of luxurious cloth, mainly tweeds. With their help, I selected one, (completely different to the ones I had seen the week before needless to say), noted the stock number and got out of their way. I understand that they are vacating these premises next month due to a refurbishment project and wish them the very best of of luck relocating one of London's true gems.
Last week, armed with my stock number, I called on my tailor. He's not really an appointment sort of person: if he's in he's in, if not, then tomorrow. I saw his front door ajar as I drove past to find somewhere to park up, and walked back to his premises full of anticipation. What I saw gave me that draining sensation when you realise suddenly that something is unexpectedly wrong. He had lost a lot of weight (on a small chap) and the usual light in his eyes was dimmed to a poor glow. He told me that he had been in hospital with a chest infection and that he was 'much better'. If that was 'better', he must really have been through the mill.
I did my very best to hide my shock, instead explaining the purpose of my visit. He was enthusiastic about the project, we discussed some details and he ordered the cloth there and then. I explained that I was in no hurry at all and that he should take his time. As I left his shop, I was a little reassured that he was on the mend as he insisted, but as I walked back to my car, I couldn't help but feel the painful reminder of mortality washing over my usual excitement at the prospect of a new suit.
So here I am waiting, travelling hopefully, but confident that the arrival will not be any sort of a disappointment.
On this occasion, I believe I have also acquired a new and salutary perspective on bespoke attire. Every piece is individual - that much we take for granted - but it is also a joint effort between tailor and client and inevitably contains an element of the personality of both. As Mr Hammett of W Bill told me, good suits often outlast their original owners and are passed on to sons and grandsons. That also means that they outlast their creators. In my view it is fantastic bequest to posterity that a tailor's handiwork should survive into the future in such a practical and deeply personal way. I'm hoping for many more suits from my tailor to give to my nephews and grandsons.
I like RLS - I really do - so I'm pleased that he didn't frame his famous aphorism in absolute terms. There is, I do admit, a certain and profound pleasure in expectation- but it is surely tempered with a light dressing of worry that things won't turn out quite as you hoped. I'm presently in a state of some anticipation, but I think I will be more comfortable 'on arrival'.
Let me explain, or at least try. These things should be so straightforward, but they aren't: and maybe that's part of the fun.
I need a suit, no really I do. We all do, I know, but this I need not only to satisfy my personal sartorial ambitions, but also to answer the demands of my vocation. So that's my excuse and I'll stick with it.
'Vocation' might be overdoing it a little (since I changed career in my 30's) but I first trained as an agriculturalist and studied estate management resulting ultimately in a professional qualification. Studying was the first step, but if you've ever tried getting payment out of a farmer, you'll realise why I changed tack after a few years in practice. As a field of study, however, it has much to commend it, not the least of which is the tradition that on qualification, you obtain a suitable tweed suit in which to ply your skills.
My qualification suit was off the peg but, since my parents bought it for me, its sentimental value was paramount. Strangely, it seems to have shrunk in the wardrobe after 20 years (!) so I need a replacement.
I think I ought to explain that I love the concept of bespoke. I think that advances in mass produced clothing have given the developed world the best quality and fit of formal clothing it has ever had and yet we choose live in the age of leisurewear. Bespoke tailoring is the perfect antidote to this unfortunate and, no doubt, unintended consequence. A unique garment resulting from the exercise of high level manual skills, natural fabrics and evolutionary design is surely the highest expression of clothing in civilised society.
Yet I cannot get overworked by some aspects that exercise certain aficionados : many seams can probably be better sewn with a machine than by hand. What counts, to my mind, is the love of craft that a tailor puts into his or her work and that shows through in the finished article. If that is so, then I have found my perfect tailor. A gentleman now in his 70's, of Italian heritage, works alone in the shop he opened over 40 years ago. All his work is his own work and his style is recognisable. His cost is about a quarter of SR, but so far as I can convince myself, I would more happily spend an hour in his little shop piled high with oddments of cloth, faded postcards and photos spanning a career, than I would a whole day in a panelled emporium in the West End.
He has made me many garments and all of them are excellent in my eye. So a tweed suit? Where else would I dream of going. The only snag being peculiar to that fabric generally - it is very hard to imagine a finished suit from a small swatch of fabric, particularly when a substantial check pattern is involved. I was therefore inclined to take my time and think it through.
In theory, this must be the answer. But Im not sitting in theory, I'm sitting in my study. And the permutations of cut, let alone pattern or weight, are multiplying like a colony of rabbits listening to looped Barry White albums.
Back to basics then: I determined to choose the best cloth, based on comfort and durability, to match the environment in which the suit will be worn. In this case, a suit for business use - worn all day a few times a month, getting in and out of cars and spending quite a lot of time in unheated buildings and outside. In my amateur assessment this meant something of the order of 14-16 oz, but I was determined to see the cloth in its full glory, the better not only to gauge the pattern, but also to try to judge its permeability. My 'old' tweed suit is very heavy but quite permeable, and so is fairly comfortable in most cooler climates. It is also particularly prone to creasing, but I'm guessing this is due to a quality compromise in a RTW garment.
I chanced to be in Regent Street a few weeks ago, at the south end of which is a shop specialising in the sale of cloth, mainly to tourists. They do a fine trade in tartans and cashmeres, but also stock a wide range of 'proper' suiting cloth, so this was my chance to see some decent lengths of tweed. I wasn't disappointed, they came up with a selection in an appropriate weight and I decided that my point about the futility of selecting tweed from small swatches seemed borne out.
I wasn't entirely convinced about my narrowed choice of 2 cloths, so ducked out of the shop but not before noting that they were both products of W Bill. Mental note to self : track down W Bill (surely they have a shop front?) and perhaps compare a wider range - and do this in time for my next visit to London a week later.
An address was easy enough to track down and it was close to where I'd be on my next trip. The afternoon of my visit I tried to find it; bearing in mind that New Burlington St is only about 50 yards long, you'd suppose it would be easy to find. It wasn't. And to cap it all it turned out to be the 'warehouse' - a slightly odd term for a subterranean vault down 2 flights of stairs and with no natural light.
In retrospect, I was more than fortunate to have been given access: these are not retail premises, rather they are the heart of a busy operation despatching lengths of cloth to the far corners of the world (and around the corner to Savile Row) and I was conscious that I was getting in the way of their working day. The place is however completely fascinating, packed to the ceiling, literally, with bolts of luxurious cloth, mainly tweeds. With their help, I selected one, (completely different to the ones I had seen the week before needless to say), noted the stock number and got out of their way. I understand that they are vacating these premises next month due to a refurbishment project and wish them the very best of of luck relocating one of London's true gems.
Last week, armed with my stock number, I called on my tailor. He's not really an appointment sort of person: if he's in he's in, if not, then tomorrow. I saw his front door ajar as I drove past to find somewhere to park up, and walked back to his premises full of anticipation. What I saw gave me that draining sensation when you realise suddenly that something is unexpectedly wrong. He had lost a lot of weight (on a small chap) and the usual light in his eyes was dimmed to a poor glow. He told me that he had been in hospital with a chest infection and that he was 'much better'. If that was 'better', he must really have been through the mill.
I did my very best to hide my shock, instead explaining the purpose of my visit. He was enthusiastic about the project, we discussed some details and he ordered the cloth there and then. I explained that I was in no hurry at all and that he should take his time. As I left his shop, I was a little reassured that he was on the mend as he insisted, but as I walked back to my car, I couldn't help but feel the painful reminder of mortality washing over my usual excitement at the prospect of a new suit.
So here I am waiting, travelling hopefully, but confident that the arrival will not be any sort of a disappointment.
On this occasion, I believe I have also acquired a new and salutary perspective on bespoke attire. Every piece is individual - that much we take for granted - but it is also a joint effort between tailor and client and inevitably contains an element of the personality of both. As Mr Hammett of W Bill told me, good suits often outlast their original owners and are passed on to sons and grandsons. That also means that they outlast their creators. In my view it is fantastic bequest to posterity that a tailor's handiwork should survive into the future in such a practical and deeply personal way. I'm hoping for many more suits from my tailor to give to my nephews and grandsons.
