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Wednesday, January 31, 2018

The Nights Are Anything But Tender In Verbier - Notes From Switzerland

The genesis of my recent stay in Verbier came from a passage of text that I had once read from F. Scott Fitzgerald's 'Tender Is The Night'. I read the book in Rome whilst attempting to write a cookbook for a friend nine years ago. One passage stuck out. In it, Fitzgerald describes Dick Diver slapping snow from his cap wearing a dark blue ski suit and entering a great hall filled with Americans that were 'domiciled' in Gstaad. I believe it was his use of the word 'fourscore' which always stuck with me because it was a word I'd only ever associated with Abraham Lincoln's 'Gettysburg Address' . But also because in one paragraph he had so aptly set a scene of hedonism as this colony of the young and rich exploded violently to the first percussions of the Charleston.

At a lunch in July I'd read the passage out loud to a group I was dining on the mountain with in Thredbo. We were well into the wine and I felt compelled to tell the others that we were having a very Fitzgerald moment.

Later still on the pillow, I told my friend that I was interested in going to see the silk mills in January and that I'd like to duck into Switzerland to do some skiing and some travel writing. She was well versed in these things and insisted I go to Verbier; that it was the only place to really have fun. Weeks later we were not on speaking terms and I made a decision that I should soldier on with my plans. I wanted my Fitzgerald experience in Switzerland.

I got it.

Arriving in Milan I did my first meeting with an Italian designer I work with from time to time. We took seats in a pasticceria  which he informed me was quite famous. I had walked the streets of Milan since 6am and I was in good spirits and knew exactly what I wanted him to start working on. Fascist architecture, landmarks across Milan, grills in windows, building facades - these were all things that we'd not looked at. We'd been focused on the Japanese for so long and I needed to redirect him. One morning walk around Milan and I'd spotted a dozen new silk designs.

We parted company and I took the train to Geneva. It was one of those extraordinary train journeys which Europe offers that's just so much more entertaining than a flight on a cheap airline and airport security. I passed Lago Maggiore listening to Brahms and Beethoven and as the terrain changed I penned my journal noting that the mountains became gradually more snow laden, long black tunnels, channels of water streaming down mountain sides like lightning bolts and in between there was township after township with factories and rows of leafless trees and clouds hovering everywhere laden with water just waiting to drop but which never did.

When I arrived in Geneva I got a shuttle up to the ski village and arrived at a particularly groovy hotel that was probably not a natural fit for me but which seemed to make every effort to take the cumbersome side out of skiing. In fact, I don't think I have ever been to a place that made skiing so easy - at a price of course.

I was there as much for the skiing as I was for the dining and partying. I had lined up an Australian to help me navigate the mountain and another Australian had reached out to tell me he would also be joining, with his daughter flying in from London. And as more and more characters descended upon the village the more my solitary skiing expedition was beginning to look more and more like a passage of Fitzgerald text.

We skied on piste because we were instructed that there were consistently avalanches in this region and because our ability was not quite there yet. There was snow everywhere and the scale of the  mountains and valleys was such that by the first day as I took my first selfie with Mont Blanc and Chamonix behind us, I knew I was indebted to my friend for the good intel.

The skiing I experienced was in a class of it's own with an abundance of snow and terrain to ski. I do not believe I am a gifted enough skier to describe in words exactly what those subtle nuances were, suffice to say it was a different snow, a different humidity and altitude and everything felt white and pristine and unspoilt.

But it was the other mountain experiences that I adored so much. Siding up to a restaurant perched on the mountain after making a reservation and eating extraordinary pizza and pasta over a bottle of red whilst you looked across at Mont Blanc and Chamonix below. It was the way in which you stowed your skis and took an al fresco table as paragliders sailed overhead and then down into the valley below. It was speaking French and hearing Russian or Italian; perhaps overhearing two Swedes considering which way they will go when they disembark the gondola.

To an Australian these are such refreshing things to enjoy. On our mountains we are lucky to get some garnish; here a waiter in a bow tie (pre-tied sadly) will come and serve you in a waistcoat and run you through the specials in such a manner that you'd assume the table before you were a bunch of aristocrats. Casually the owner of the restaurant sends over a round of shots of mirto and explains that he harvests it from myrtle berries he collects in Sardinia when he sails his yacht in the summertime.

Yes yes, I came looking for Fitzgerald's ski experience and I was getting it. A compost of the privileged rich would gather in the same nightclubs where ski bunnies who barely had the means to make noodles at night and pay for ski tickets would thrust and thrive to the music blaring out from a band that was as talented as it was tragic. I would watch an old man lick his lips as young girls gathered around us to talk whilst two young lovers kissed passionately by the corner of the bar. I could hear the rock n roll blare behind a window screen whilst we on the other side went about ordering our negronis. I was on the balcony as the sun went down and music was turned up; I saw the froufrou woman in the mink coat and collagen lips rub shoulders with the suntanned gentleman who looked like he'd just gotten off a surfing boat in Indonesia.

At one point I witnessed a young Australian, too belted to have any sense about him, grab a bottle of spirits from behind the bar and free pour shots for all and sundry staring devilishly and without filter into the blue light of the disco. I heard whispers of affairs and everything that seemed wholesome and good was, when the veneer was scratched, tainted and marred by excess.

And whilst I have so many numerous stories I could tell, I must keep the vast majority of them to myself. What goes on tour, stays on tour. So I am told.

So, I got my Fitzgerald experience but I will say this, when I think of the rich and restless and their boundless hedonism I am often likely to suggest that 'la dolce vita has a hook' , and by that I mean that there is a barb in all of it, there is pain in the pleasure of it all. You can't live at that level without it taking it's toll but what the price is, only the individual who is living the experience might tell you. For myself, it wasn't just the dollars and cents that took its toll, it was the idea that it lacked purpose. And by the end of my experience I missed my work and I missed my customers.

We are not here for a long time, so I am grateful to put this business to rest. Sometimes in life we can find things that are just too conceptually large for us at a particular time. I am drawn to this world like a moth to light, but I am simultaneously a simple man who finds comfort in building my business one bow tie at a time.











Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Things To Do Before You Die - Have Charvet Of Paris Custom Make You A Shirt

So much has been said about Charvet that what could an imposter like myself from Australia possibly have to offer? Since 1838 Charvet has been in many people's opinion the alpha and omega in bespoke shirts and luxury silk neck wear and accessories. In fact, if they had been online in 2007 neither this blog nor my company would exist, as I have often said before. Even on the aeroplane as I flew to Europe, I was reminded of just how many times I have seen writers refer to Charvet as a symbol of the nobility, the rich, the famous and those aspiring to be near them. Somerset Maugham uses Charvet to highlight the aspirations and need for his American character Elliot Templeton to have his title restored and a count's crown sewn into his underwear in The Razor's Edge. It reminded me of the first time I recalled seeing Charvet mentioned in a passage of text; when Charles Ryder spots a Charvet tie, his tie, a print or weave of postage stamps (which is a theme that is in accordance with that particular time post WW1) on Sebastian Flyte in Brideshead Revisited.

Now I stand in the Place Vendôme about to revisit Charvet, ten years after I first walked into their store at number 28. It is a different feeling now. Then I had not one drop of knowledge on shirting, shirt making, silk weaving, silk printing, nor how to make a bow tie or tie. Now, I enter knowing that I have customers all over the world and with a quiet confidence of someone who can keep up with most menswear enthusiasts when talking about clothes and style.

And it has been a long journey. For those of you who care to revisit the first posts on this blog you will see just how basic it was to begin with. The writing, the content, my knowledge.

Now as I open up the doors to Charvet I am reminded once again just what a rarefied institution this place is. It is the centre of the universe for many shirt enthusiasts, it is a place that has a lineage that dates back to Napoleon Bonaparte's wardrobe curator. It has cultivated relationships with those of wealth and privilege and those that wished to be like them. Through it's doors have walked kings and queens, heads of state, writers, artists, poets, musicians, film stars, the rich and the famous. A pastiche of so many that influential people that it has in fact it's own Wikipedia entry.  And now I am about to add one more pattern to their racks, that of an aspiring menswear writer from Australia.

Sabrina does not remember me but I remind her that she served me ten years ago. She is a brunette, well presented, elegant, somewhat conservative and very well mannered. She guides me around the store and we rummage through the new, the old, the staples and so on. I pick out a bow tie for myself and as usual I feel compelled to buy a particular variety of their polka dot pocket squares which I believe are the best in the world.

As we converse I suggest that I would be interested in seeing their bespoke shirt floor and I inform her that I intend to interview Monsieur Jean-Claude Colban the next day. She agrees to take me to the 2nd floor and there, for the first time I'll admit, I am finally in the room that most people like to talk about - the walls and stacks of shirting fabrics. It is said that on their famed Mur Des Blancs (wall of whites) there are over 400 variations of white with over 104 varying shades of it. And in solid blues there are over 200 to choose from from the palest baby blue to the richest and darkest navy. Many believe it is the largest collection of high-quality shirting assembled anywhere in the world and certainly I am not aware of anyone who offers a collection even remotely similar.

As I rummage through the wall of whites I made a decision that today is the day that I will add my pattern to their library in the hope that I too might become one of those memorable quotes one day that reflects the love and admiration that so many writers have bestowed upon this hallowed sartorial ground. It was Jean Cocteau who once remarked that Charvet is 'where the rainbow finds ideas' , and in that vein I decided that whatever I was to make had to be playful and fun. Choosing a white self polka dot fabric I set about with Sabrina choosing an Italian-esque spread collar and turned back cuff with a fly front.

I was escorted into the change room where 28 measurements were taken and a 45.5 trial shirt placed on me to ensure that they roughly had a snapshot of my torso before they began bringing in and letting out elements through the measurements. I was thoroughly impressed not only with the manner by which both Sabrina and Mintou handled themselves but by how calm and relaxed the process was. I am one to passionately hate the retail experience of trying on clothes but for some reason I felt like we had all the time in the world and at no point did they work up a sweat and accordingly, and quite bizarrely, neither did I.

Sabrina explained that if I was to have the proper Charvet experience I would need to return within a few months to try on the sample shirt that they will cut before they complete my body template, which I agreed to. I explained that it was unlikely that I could be back before June but she said Charvet had no desire to rush me, so long as I paid the deposit I could come back in two or three years time and they would not mind. That sat well with me and served to remind me that this business develops long term relationships with their customers.

It was once said of Charvet in 1863 that they were the first producer of fine shirts, superiority in taste and elegance in cuffs, bibs and fit. And, in 1889 a jury at the Paris World Fair declared that 'fine shirts remain the property and glory of Paris' .

These days there is stiff competition. When I follow other shirt makers on Instagram I can see that there are truly some remarkable shirt makers out there, especially some of the artisan makers in Italy. But for all the fine details and fanfare that some of these makers offer, none of them remain an institution like Charvet, a place where you could literally spend a day choosing first your shirting and then your collars and cuffs and details. Add to this, Charvet remains one of the few places that remain where a collar is made of 6 unfused layers of cotton shirting rather than being constructed with high-grade fusing. This traditional method of making gives a long lasting and robust collar with a very elegant and natural feel about it.

I've got a good year most probably before I can give you my final summary of what it's like to own a bespoke Charvet shirt but most certainly I have gotten the ball rolling on a bucket list item and I encourage any of you going through Paris, go, without delay or hesitation, to 28 Place Vendôme and get swept up in everything that is and was Charvet and what it might become tomorrow.

Charvet, referenced in my book by Somerset Maugham as I flew to Europ


Some things never disappoint, like re-entering the Place Vendome
The Mecca of fine menswear and still an inspiration to me ten years on.




Hard not to fall in love in these streets.
The Australian who has come to get his shirt pattern inducted into the hall of fame....



A lovely self polka dot fabric on Charvet's Mur Des Blancs

Sabrina and Mintou taking 28 measures to cover all aspects of my torso

Home and wearing silk in all sorts of ways .... because it's Paris and you can....