
I admit to having some prejudices when it comes to tailoring. For years, I believed the best work is done by old men who have a no-nonsense approach to their craft. In the forward to Anderson & Sheppard’s vanity book, A Style is Born, Graydon Carter describes the Savile Row tailoring shop as a dark, intimidating place. Worn wooden floorboards, ancient tables with heavy rolls of wools and tweeds, and a chest-high etched-glass divider where the front of house would take your order. Even Carter’s description of his cutter, the famous Mr. Norman Halsey, is comically cold:
A few years after we had gotten to know each other, I suggested that he call me Graydon rather than “Mr. Carter.” “Of course, Mr. Carter,” he replied. On occasion, I would try to get him to make something outside the mould, something a bit dramatic, to which he would say “A most daring idea, sir,” and the plan would be quietly dropped. During one fitting, when I felt I had put on a bit of weight, I asked Mr. Halsey if he could cut it so the extra pounds wouldn’t show. “We’re only tailors, sir,” he replied politely, but firmly.
In the world of bespoke tailoring, you’ll find hundreds of little stories like these. All charming – such as the one of gruff Neapolitan tailors offering clients coffee (I once wrote a two-part follow-up at StyleForum) – but they also contribute to this idea that there are prima facia conditions for a tailoring house to be taken seriously. Things that position the house as genuinely inclined to the craft, rather than a slick facade that’s more about marketing than good work.
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