Izzy gives Prince Charles credit for being, er, ballsy enough to wear kilts in celebration of the union of Scotland and England, but he erred royally in combining a loud tartan with a bold argyle. Either the kilt or socks ought to have been muted or plain, as the Scottish nationalist Sean Connery demonstrates.
Once the heroic face of Spartacus and Colonel Dax, Kirk Douglas, sad to say, looks a bit pathetic in cartoonish primary-colored playclothes. While he is has been supporting a noble cause, the renovation of playgrounds around Los Angeles, is it too much to ask the living legend to maintain his dignity?
Courtesy of Thom Browne comes this freakish nightmare—of ironing, that is.
Ridiculously large bow ties (made of what appear to be Shantung silk) have become the sartorial trademark of Alber Elbaz, artistic director of French fashion house Lanvin. Though they given him a whimsically clownish appearance, they do at least make him look friendly and approachable, in contrast to the cold hauteur of so many fashion designers. And to those in the know, the colossal bow tie pleasantly brings to mind the flamboyant aesthete Oscar Wilde.
Jeremy Hackett, the man behind Hackett—a brand that, by copying and improving upon English classics, is in many ways the British equivalent of Ralph Lauren—waxes eloquent about the time he discovered the virtues of a Barbour jacket:
When I opened my first shop in London in 1983, I sold — as one magazine kindly put it — dead men’s clothes. Today they are known as vintage, and some items can fetch exorbitant prices. Once, on one of my frequent forays to Portobello Market, I chanced upon an ancient, patched-up Barbour jacket. I bought it and put it in the window, where it sold within minutes at a price not far from what it cost new. The attraction, I realized, was precisely that it was worn. In no time at all, no self-respecting Sloane Ranger would be seen without this distinctive olive green coat. Young army officers wore them as part of their mufti, teamed with straw-colored corduroys, suede shoes and red socks. Aspiring bankers adopted the Barbour, and it also became de rigueur over black tie. It was a way of airing your country pedigree, though you may have actually lived in a two-up, two-down in Fulham.
It spoke of damp dogs sleeping on tartan coat linings in the back of battered Land Rovers, of point-to-points and Badminton Horse Trials, all things dear to an Englishman. I recently retrieved my old Beaufort Barbour — with its oily texture, brown corduroy collar and brass zipper as strong as a railway line — from the attic, where it had lain neglected for nearly 20 years. Suddenly, I was filled with nostalgia for the countryside. So, despite not owning a large pile in the shires, I shall wear my shabby Barbour the next time I go shopping on Sloane Street — but I think I’ll leave my green wellies in the Land Rover.
So as to celebrate July 4th in full patriotic regalia, Izzy yesterday wore a white linen shirt, blue linen trousers, and these red-and-white striped socks from J. Press. He won’t go into why he even owns the eye-popping pair—all he’ll say is that it’s a bad idea to shop on eBay while intoxicated.
He is, however, proud to report that two strangers on the street complemented him on the socks, so evocative of Old Glory. He did admittedly get, er, ribbed about them at an Independence Day party, to which he responded that he’d pried the pair off the carcass of Ronald McDonald.
Friends of Rupert Murdoch, take note: The next time you need to get him a gift, buy him some long socks or even sock garters, for “shin cleavage” is unbecoming on a billionaire.
As Spring finally arrives on the East Coast, many men are no doubt getting the perverse desire to show off their hairy legs and gnarled knees. But before you reach for the shorts, Izzy beseeches you to keep in mind this image of New York Mayor Mike Bloomberg, who is usually well-dressed. (Note also that His Honor would have looked less goofy had he chosen a slimmer-fitting polo shirt with shorter sleeves.) And at the very least, if you absolutely, positively must wear dress shorts, do your fellow citizens a favor, and avoid white socks please.
Leaving a mosque in Turkey, World Bank president Paul Wolfowitz made it clear that he himself could use a loan.
Izzy was surprised to discover such things existed, but these “invisible” socks are a great solution for getting the sockless look in the summer without the chafing or blisters. (Yes, this is way off season, but Izzy is a sucker for a bargain.)
The New York Times is touting Thom Browne, the notorious proponent of ankle cleavage, as “today the most envied and influential American men’s wear designer.” Though the article contains much of interest, including the observation that Browne’s suits “caught on with an underserved customer: the businessman who wants to look both conservative and cool,” one claim in particular caught Izzy’s attention. The paper reports that to gain attention for his style, Browne “started eating breakfast—black coffee and white toast—every morning …at Pastis, neatly dressed in a Thom Browne suit-slash-sandwich board.”
It just so happens that one day this past summer, Izzy, apeing the idle rich, himself breakfasted at Pastis, a pretentious French bistro in New York’s meatpacking district. And whom did he behold sitting at his regular table just next to the entrance? Thom Browne, clad in extremely short seersucker pants with massive cuffs, and going sockless in black wingtips, just like in the above photo. The sight of his get-up did make an indelible impression. Little did Izzy know at the time that he was witnessing a highly effective self-advertisement. Mr. Browne deserves a belated hat tip.
Although the debate over whether socks should match one’s trousers or shoes is interminable, Pierre Cardin playfully demonstrates a rare third alternative: letting socks go “freelance.”
