ON CLOTHES

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 20, 14 April 1927, Page 12

ON CLOTHES

(Written for THE SUN.) Lea esprita qui ne voient pas lea choaea que par lenr plus petit cote, ont imagine que le Danndysme etait surtout Vart de la mise , une heureuse et audacieuse dictature cn fait de toilette et d'elegance exterieure. — Barbey D’A urevilly. HPHE craving for self-expression rests at the bottom of every art, and poet and painter alike have busied themselves with the presenting of a point of view. In every case it is the individual that interests us and what he may say that is original is essentially a part of his personality. Once the sowing-days of other men’s influences pass from the artist his art is the parade of self. He throws his personality into the market-place and nowadays "a broken heart runs through many editions.” All art is simply a form of* egotism. And it isf to the imperfections of humanity that we owe most of the good things <»l! the world. The most immediate and most soul-satisfying form of self- * repression for the egotist is to be found in clothes. And it is only his sltbrtcomings, physical and pecuniary, that drive the artist into other fields. TRince Mr. Dennis Bradley it is no longer a matter for argument that though men’s clothes are ugly women’s clothes give ample opportunity for artistic effort. Not the most august of ancestries in the world rings a woman with such queenliness as a dressmaker who has done her duty. And with the physique of Valentino and the

purse of Macaenas the artist could achieve splendour in this field. He has shown it in the past, in the triumphs of Brummell, of D’Orsay and of Beau Nash of Bath. To be a true exquisite was once every man’s ambition, to be one who might be consulted as to the setting of a stone, the knotting of a scarf or the conduct of a cane. Today, alas (I quote Mr. Bradley) man’s self-expression is restricted to his socks, his neckties, and his dressinggowns. Colour has been driven from the world and its return “when for two months men of fashion, without: realising it, were walking the dirty pavements of London Town clothed in purple and gold,” was checked by the World War. The universal drabness of khaki replaced the universal drabness of factory smoke. And after the war the dullness continued. The passionate protest of the schoolboy’s socks availed nothing. Uniform had been the only real wear for four years and uniformity remained the rule. e

Even the literary men caught the infection. Carelessness, the tailor’s advertisement tells us, is out of date even amongst the artistic. . . Thus has the last of freedoms perished. Tricotrin now roams with spats and knotted silken tie. He is to be seen at Government House garden parties amiably bored and hobnobbing with the great of the land. The deep armchair no longer calls for feet on the mantelpiece, nor does Tricotrin desire to wrench his collar, fling hence his coat and tilt at jade fortune with his pen. Our artists are becoming civilised. But it is essential that they look prosperous nowadays, with so tnany editors to interview. THE GOLDEN AGE The XVinth Century, of course, was the golden age of the man of fashion. Room here for the exquisite to live, but none for the parvenu. Ruffles and rapier hilt, brocade and bow alike betray him. But great opportunities for the man of taste; the beau monde. “Coats of crimson velvet, of white satin, of various coloured cloths, all embroidered and trimmed with gold or silver lace and buttons of gold. Waistcoats of gold brocade, of every conceivable shade of satins and silks,* embroidered or fringed with lace. Crimson and black velvet breeches. Silk stockings in black or white. Ruffled shirts and neck-cloths. Hats laced with gold point d’Espagne, or gold binding or lace scalloped; silver buckles for the knees and shoes; diamond stock-buckles and dainty tor-toise-shell snuff-boxes.” It was a wild orgy of changing fashions. No difficulty in distinguishing betwixt gentleman and grom in those years. Violet waistcoats, saffron hose and plum-coloured velvet, how we envy you! Bejewelled buckles, silver lace and “linning stockings,” Camlett cloaks, silken suits and lace bands, doublets, deep-skirted coats, coats worn “elegantly tight” and coats worn “carelessly loose ” .cassock vests and zebra vests, you made these days great indeed. It is the clothes of the era which keeps its art so vividly before us from “The Rape of the Lock” to “The School for Scandal.” Before us the women move in their exaggerated dresses in the ornate setting of a drawing by Aubrey Beardsley. Costume comedy is what the period seems to us now. But what costumes, what comedy! DINGY CLOTHES OF TO-DAY To-day we are prisoned in dingy clothing of hideous cut, we have sacrificed effect and have gained no freedom. If we wish to do any work we have to remove our coats, for in them we could scarcely raise our hands above our heads. The trousers of today are the cross of the true dandy, for all the pressing in the world will not constrict them to a really good line (do you remember the O. Henry story of the man who went into a monastery because at last he had found a garment which would not bag at the knees?); waistcoats find their own level and are discreetly hidden by all save those who wear watch-chains. Hats, until the last year or two, have been frankly impossible and the one sensible thing has been the increased vogue of the soft collar, which will yet be adapted for evening wear in some form or other. Shirts are ineffectual things at best, though the jockey boy often uses them as a weapon to kill a more startling tie. The shirt, like the waistcoat, is little seen and that little is too much. It is in reaction from all this that jazz sweaters have invaded the masculine wardrobe, that dressing-gowns have become gayer and that ties are now often of astonishing brilliance. But it is a poor attempt at best. Let us not be half-hearted, let us end these narrow limits to our delight. Let us hurl all, yea, all this white linen hence and admit our shortcomings. Let us convert the idea of the Duchess of Chevreuse to our own use and go forth in garments embroidered with sportive cupids and garlands of roses. Let us follow Louis the Saint in suitings richly worked to rival painting and reproducing landscapes and figures. If we cannot wear the gold rose collar of Piers Vaveston or the gorgeous jackets of Henry VIII., let us at least exhibit our individuality in colour. What is the present that it should be a weight upon our backs? William the Norman had a mantle of gold powdered with crosses and blossoms of gold and edged along the lower border with an orphery of figures, in which, at mass, he celebrated the conquest of England. And surely we are more civilised since Anglo-Saxon times. Why should not our wardrobes reflect our moods? Why should we affect navy blue when last night’s party has left us with a tinge of yellow; why should we need to wear grey when our state of mind is distinctly green? Thus the youth in love might don a delicate pale blue which would declare to all the world, as he walked with springy step, that his thoughts were of* Paphos and his eye aloft above the buildings for his straining doves. And when his queen of the moment proved to be married or deserted him for a mere millionaire’s son he might change to orange or yellow until the blow had softened. When in high fettle and equal to the winged words of wit and to hurling the epigrammatic dart he might choose green for the day’s wear, and when depressed and out of conversational change, what better than an ensemble of mauve?

But rude facts assail us. Fashion the inexorable would come into play. Seasonal colours would be prescribed and again we should hear the chant of the tailor: “These are being widely worn, sir.” Once more similarity would be upon us, but we should have sold our freedom and in a feminised world we should more than ever be in fashion’s thraldom. Better the battered billycock and thread-bare Burberry whose seams are watertight no longer. Best the restful grey suit, the coat that is “part of our accumulated virtue,” the trousers whose knees have sagged comfortably from the crossing than the changes of chameleon fashion at the dictation of some mannikin mind.

Mary! Bring me my woollen jacket and those fur-lined slippers. There, at least, is peace. QUENTIN POPE. Wellington,