Proof

... that I am thirsty: When I saw a ludicrous dress of whisks (see below) in a slideshow, I thought of Compton Mackenzie's Whisky Galore. I know, I know, the two do not complement one another. I'm pairing them anyway, for the model, as grim as a Chinese terracotta warrior, needs a dose of fun in her life. (Granted, the attempt to make the "feminine" cooking utensils into "masculine" faux armor is gimmicky enough to make the happiest model unhappy. Oh, but I opine when I should be thinking about whisky.)


Mackenzie's book was made into a marvelous movie (with fun movie posters--see below). It makes thorough sense that it was released on Christmas Day in 1949. Whisky Galore! is a sheer delight that increases my love for coy and cooing Joan Greewood and bumptious Basil Radford.

And now, the poster:

The Lady Whose Book Was Peach

On the left, Cautionary Tales for Children (1907), written by Hilaire Belloc and illustrated by Basil Blackwood, who decorated some of Belloc's books but died in combat in the First World War in 1917. On the right, "St. Mercer St., Soho" posted by the Sartorialist on Monday May 10, 2010.

I don't know whither the hands of this elegant lady have gone, but I would like to imagine that if her left hand were present she would be holding this famous Belloc book. It goes so well with her finger waves, Mary Poppins medicine bag, and salmon polka dots. And it goes so well with her sly smile, as if she at one point had been a Matilda "who told such Dreadful Lies" or a Rebecca "who slammed Doors for Fun."

Belloc was once asked why he wrote so much. "Because my children," he replied, "are howling for pearls and caviar."

P.S. Plum Perfect

Plum readers,

Here's a small gem I found this morning: a P.G. Wodehouse interview in 1975 published in the Paris Review when he was 91 and a half years old. There's a little bit of everything covered, from his year in a German internment camp to how he is utterly awful at giving directions even to his own home in Long Island. His happy temperament is on perfect display throughout the 23 pages, one of which is a picture from his notes for a Blandings novel he was working on at the time of his death.

I am glad to know his favorite character of his own device is Lord Emsworth, with whom I'm about to spend this perfect May afternoon in Pigs Have Wings.

Plum Perfect

Summer is starting its yearly conquest of Spring, and the days for wearing spring coats are dwindling. Nevertheless, when packing for my New York trip last weekend, I included in the mix my favorite spring coat, a Theory trench the color of a pale biscuit. I hoped there might be proper occasion—cold weather, wet weather—to wear it. (The trench to the below right is a finer thing, a Burberry confection). I used my biscuit coat just once, to be exact—in the cool of an excellently priced Bolt Bus, not outside in a park of flowers, pigeons, and pugs. But while we were rolling along the highway from Washington to New York through a light smattering of rain—this was the one time it rained—I noticed that my coat complemented rather well my book, Leave It To Psmith by P.G. Wodehouse (1881-1975). And like yours truly, Psmith was reading en route—but on a train and with a monocle. Still, I felt like I was in a real life matryoshka doll, somehow of the English variety. This served to lighten my mood considerably.


The edition I carried is as pictured to the left. It is by Overlook Press, which has been reissuing (almost) all the Wodehouse titles and is scheduled to finish the marvelous task by August. Overlook's are arguably the best volumes to buy: The pages are sewn, not glued, the illustrations are all charming and suitable for each book's contents, the boards a lovely light blue cloth, and the inside covers papered in pale yellow and cream vertical stripes. Everything about the design suggests whimsy, leisure, a light heart, surprise, and intelligence. I think Jeeves would nod in approval of these editions, and Psmith (the "P" is silent, he says, as in "pshrimp") would be so happy as to insert a pink chrysanthemum—or, perhaps, this time a carnation—into his buttonhole. Bertie Wooster would have Jeeves make him a whiskey-and-soda in celebration.

Another Plum book to consider is called Week-end Wodehouse (1939), a compilation of Plum's stories and excerpts with illustrations—or "decorations"—by Kerr and an introduction by Hilaire Belloc. Belloc writes, in closing, about butlers and the importance of Jeeves:

It is probable that the race of butlers will die even sooner than other modern species. They rose to meet a need. They played a national role triumphantly. That role is now near extinction and they are ready to depart. You may say that Jeeves is not exactly a butler, but he is of the same rare divine metal from which butlers are made. He leads among those other butlers of Mr. Wodehouse's invention and indeed he leads all the gentlemen's gentlemen of the world. I should like the foreigner or posterity (much the same thing) to steep themselves in the living image of Jeeves and thus comprehend wha tthe English character in action may achieve. Talk of efficiency!

I have just said that those of whom Jeeves is the prototype or the god are perhaps doomed, and this leads me to the last question which one always asks of all first-rate writing: Will Mr. Wodehouse's work endure?

Pray note that literary work does not necessarily endure through its excellence. What is called "immortality" (wheras nothing mortal is immortal) is conferred upon a man's writing by external circumstances as much as by internal worth. I can show you whole societies of men for whom Keats would be meaningless and I know dozens of Englishmen well versed in the French language who find Racine merely dull. Whether the now famous P.G. Wodehouse will remain upon that level for as many generations as he deserves, depends, alas, upon what happens to England. For my part I would like to make it a test of that thing—"What happens to England."

If in,say, 50 years Jeeves and any other of that great company—but in particular Jeeves—shall have faded, then what we have so long called England will no longer be.

Or, in the words of a young lady in The Code of the Woosters, "Jeeves, you really are a specific dream-rabbit," to which he replies, "Thank you, miss. I am glad to have given satisfaction."

Springtime for Plaid

A nattily dressed friend and fellow Lambist tipped me to Sir Sean Connery's annual springtime fashion charity event in New York, Dressed to Kilt. Various designers, actors, musicians, models—and a few Olympians—joined to walk the Connery runway in sundry outfits, ranging widely in style, from dandy to gypsy, but each incorporating a yard or two of plaid, which, Sir Sean somehow thinks, is excellent to wear year-round, even (or especially) in the warmth of Spring.

Seasons aside, my friend was reminded of several books when looking at the slideshow of Dressed to Kilt. Here is one he thought of:

Here, the Olympian Shani Davis (swining his arms like a windmill, though he is not even outside) with a Penguin edition of Dubliners, nicely echoing his own bizarre movement. I only wish Shani had worn a hat like those in the painting. A wasted opportunity. If he wishes to wear a book that doesn't reminder onlookers that he is missing his topper, he would do well to carry either the below oatmeal-colored edition of A Portrait of a Young Man decorated with little band-aids of tape (to remind him that he should heal his look with a hat)—or, if it is Christmastide, this red-rimmed issue of Time.

Cheap Frills: Penguin redesigns the classics, again

If there is one thing Anthropologie is good at, it's selling clothes—and accessories, and bed linens, and jewelry, and other do-dads—that are mass-produced, overpriced "one of a kinds." In other words, they are items that are supposed to look like you (or grandma) made them. Except you (or grandma) didn't. The artsy folks at Anthropologie did. Cheaper, more charming, and more unique things can be purchased at your local vintage shop—or on eBay!

Now Anthropologie is selling 12 new embossed canvas-covered books of various classics by Penguin, including Alice in Wonderland, Great Expectations, and the Odyssey (which translator? Fagles? Lattimore? Tell me!). The books happen to jive quite well with Anthropologie's modern vintage aesthetic. They can be used easily as accessories with Anthropologie outfits. (Indeed, they are listed under "Accessories" online.) I suppose one could style the Odyssey with any of their featured "aquatic looks" of "seaside simplicity" such as "bubbling surf" and "rush of kelp." And if someone asks what you're wearing, you simply chime, "oh, a little something from the submerged series ... by anthropologie ... and homer."

Granted, I do rejoice when book design and clothing design mingle—but only as long as the books aren't treated just as acessories. I have seen and handled the new Penguin books, which appeared a few months ago in book stores (I found them at Barnes and Noble last winter), and they don't feel like books. For one, they are suspiciously light for hardbacks. Also, the paper quality isn't great, especially when you're paying 20 bones per novel. These amount to disposable versions of enduring novels. One would do better to tote an earlier printing of any of the classics, such as this one or this one, perhaps with a waterproof trench that can withstand Poseidon's blows. I think Aquascutum (Latin for "water shield") should do the trick.

Oh, and this just in: Urban Outfitters is selling the new Penguin classics, too! Along with these loud-covered, socially concious books. But of course. It's another store that mass-produces what it is to be "unique" and/or "cool."

P.S. Read more about the books at Penguin's blog here.

Drop Dead Red

On the left, Eclipse (The Twilight Saga) by Stephanie Meyer. On the right, a look from the Talbot Runhof Fall 2010 RTW collection.

I had to pair them. She is wearing transparent greaves and patella protectors to ward off teething werewolves. And she is wearing a jawbone-skimming collar—enhanced with a giant, distracting rose—to ward off vampires.

This outfit really makes the model into the ultimate Twi-femme fetale. (And that jacket? Yes, I think it is made of genuine sunlit vampire skin.)

Unrelated, unscientific post-script: In case you are wondering, that fantastic red on the model's legs can be made with paint. Layer glazes of Cadmium Red Light and Alizarin Crimson, one after the other on a white ground. It's the sort of hue that will never come from just one tube. It looks especially vibrant beside neutral grays tinged with green.

Ingenue Nouveau

On the left, Writing Atlas (1903) by Julius Hoffmann. On the right, a look from Antonio Marras Spring 2010 RTW collection.

This book from the Jugendstil period reminds me of the work of Gustav Klimt in particular, as does the outfit, which shows and reveals a lithe female form as so many of his paintings did. Klimt also loved to engulf the body in fabric—and at times to have young skin look like ruffled, ivory fabric.

The Marras collection is made for the ingenue. So many effortless, ivory, sheer items (some far too sheer) that, depending on how you view them, seem innocent or sexy. They are definitely not cute. They are too seriously concerned with form—like the font and decoration on the book—to seem cute. The colors are exceptionally refined, too—cream, burgundy, and, elsewhere in the collection, navy, mint, black.

On a more superficial note, I like the notion of using burgundy as an accent in spring. Such a refined complement to mint.

Lastly, I'd like to direct your attention to this movie, my favorite of David Mamet's, The Winslow Boy, which features some of the best hats ever captured on film, including a stately straw one.

A Lambist Steeped in Sentences

Meet my friend and fellow Lambist "A. Twinings." In her right hand she holds a 2004 edition of Mariage Frères: The Art of Tea, and in her left a canister of Marco Polo looseleaf tea made by the same company, which is the oldest in France and the longtime rival of Dammann Frères. Note that signature Naples yellow circle on the canister, letting you know that the leaves inside are a high quality product.

Thinking about her outfit, A. Twinings muses,

The sweater is really bright, so I was tempted to pair it with all black—an urge to which I refused to succumb, feeling contrary before my morning cup of Marco Polo tea. Instead, I chose grey tights and cream-colored Ferragamo flats with a bubbly navy skirt. Quitting coffee has turned me into a librarian-outfit-wearing tea aficionado.

P.S. Mariage Frères is sold, in America, at a few online boutiques and specialty grocery stores such as Balducci's, Williams & Sonoma, and Dean & Deluca. You can order their tea looseleaf (better value) or in muslin tea bags (slightly more convenient) here. You can also order them directly from Mariage Frères here. While Marco Polo is an excellent black tea—and one of Mariage Frères's most beloved—make sure to try their green teas, such as Yuzu Temple, and the ones of the rooibos variety, such as Rouge Bourbon Vanille. There are over 500 types to try, even one for Easter, The de Pâques, and a blue Thai one called Opium Hill.

Venus In a Half-Shell

On the left, a copy of a TMNT comic book. On the right, a look from the Chanel Pre-Fall 2010 RTW collection.

If only down vests could turn us into Renaissance ninjas!

Beauty of the Sea Beast

On the left, a copy of Orca: The Whale Called Killer by Eric Hoyt. On the right, a look from the Jason Wu Fall 2009 RTW collection.

For a moment, imagine that somewhere in the mini-labyrinths stitched onto her skirt there is not a Minotaur, but a Marine Minotaur, i.e. a Whale Called Killer.

As my friend and colleague Jonathan V. Last points out in a great, brief article in the present issue of The Weekly Standard, "orca" is related to the Latin word orcinus, meaning, "belonging to the realm of the dead." Remember this the next time you look at blubberlicious Shamu—or even this sky-high Shamu—and are tricked into thinking he's just a cute and friendly cross between a panda and a porpoise.

Leitmotif in Yellow

On the left, the April 18, 1869 cover of L'Eclipse by André Gill depicting Richard Wagner and his supposedly ear-splitting music. On the right, a look evoking the Golden Fleece from the Marc Jacobs Fall 2010 RTW collection.

The Jacobs collection was highly praised, but to me many of the items seemed too ill-draped or oddly proportioned—or glittery and transparent. The colors, however, were marvelous taken together—mouse grays and browns, pale neutrals, blacks, creams, and this butter yellow—and separately. Jacobs's attention to accessories, and to natural texture, is doubly lovely to behold. Consider these shoes/socks and this collar—or the subtle, rose glasses on this model that complement the round, rose-colored ear Wagner is pounding with his music on the cover of L'Eclipse.

If you click through the links to L'Eclipse and André Gill, you'll discover that La Lune, the weekly four-sheet where Gill ran his famous "The Man of the Day" caricature, was censored in December 1867 because Napoleon III, nephew to Napoleon I, so disliked this picture Gill had etched of him. An authority said to La Lune's editor that the paper would have to "undergo an eclipse." And so a new paper was born under the fitting name L'Eclipse, to which Gill contributed frequently.

Gill got into further trouble with his illustrations. Once he drew a pumpkin head people assumed to be a judge's. (This got him into court.) And another time, frustrated with the government's further attempts to quiet his pen, he drew this image titled L'Enterrement de la Caricature—"The Funeral of Caricature." On July 29, 1881, France did change its censorship laws to allow for more freedoms, but this didn't affect Gill, who, by that time, had been sent to a psychiatric hospital. Thankfully, he left a terrific paper trail for us to remember him by. See more prints "par Gill" here.

Diane Von Famous Seamus

On the left, a Faber & Faber paperback of Seamus Heaney's second book of poetry, Door into the Dark, published in 1969. On the right, a look from Diane Von Furstenberg's Fall 2010 RTW collection. Detail of the hat, which is like an anvil but made of flowers and netting.

Last April 13 marked the 70th birthday of Ireland's fourth poet laureate, Famous Seamus. Listen to his birthday address before RTE here (skip to minute mark 2:45 to get past the intro). If you can't get enough of his malty Irish voice, stop here to order a boxed set of 15 CDs of the poet reciting almost all of his ouevre—enough to fill the hours on an airplane spent traveling from Washington to Dublin and back to Washington again.

Tam in Hand

Warning: That orange-winged thing peeking from that sandy purse is not a book. It is the champagne of netbooks—excuse me, "Digital Clutches."

Or at least that is what designer Vivienne Tam calls these $600 HP netbooks she designed, for the second year in a row, to match her Spring runway collection debuted a few weeks ago at Bryant Park.

Tam hopes the netbooks will make its users/wearers feel "independent and free, like butterflies"—and happy. Apparently, that's why the return key is stamped with the double-happiness character.

I suppose this is the accessory a Lambist with money to spare would use when reading a book on Google books or Project Gutenberg. Anyway, here's an extensive photo gallery for your entertainment—and double-happiness.

h/t to my friend Emily Schultheis, a Lambist who spied the Digital Clutches in 'In Style.'

A Feather for Fitzgerald

On the left, the first edition of F. Scott Fitzgerald's debut novel This Side of Paradise, published by Scribner's in 1920. On the right, an ensemble from Oscar de la Renta's Fall Collection 2010 RTW.

As you might have guessed, the first edition and the outfit are astronomically expensive. So, instead of possessing either, we might as well ponder the book.

Here is a little something Fitzgerald wrote in 1937, on what it felt like to have his first novel meet ink and plate:

"Then the postman rang, and that day I quit work and ran along the streets, stopping automobiles to tell friends and acquaintances about it—my novel This Side of Paraise was accepted for publication. That week the postman rang and rang, and I paid off my terrible small debts, bought a suit, and woke up every morning with a world of ineffable toploftiness and promise.

-"Early Success" American Cavalcade (October 1937)

He had personal reasons to feel toplofty, too, for he's written the novel in great part to dazzle and win back the favor—and the hand—of Zelda Sayre, who said she would accept an engagement ring only once a publisher had accepted his manuscript. When Scribner's did just that in 1920, she agreed to marry him.

Welcome to LAMB!

Books, of course, are objects to be read. But they are also objects to be worn. We carry them by our sides, let them peek from full purses and briefcases, tuck them under sprays of newspaper in our arms, and read them, quite conspicuously, in Metro cars, parks, and coffee shops. When thinking of books in this way, it then makes thorough sense to consider the look of your book in concert with your outfit before popping out the door. After all, one of the Latin terms for book is vade mecum—meaning "come with me."

I started pairing books with my outfits in high school. The first book was a bright goldenrod-colored copy of The Waste Land and Other Poems by T.S. Eliot. It was my father's when he was about my age, and I soon found, after I had discovered the poetry inside, that the bright yellow not only cheered me up on my way to geometry class but tended to complement many of the items in my wardrobe. Nodding to that little book, I've made the exclamation mark in LAMB's logo the same hue as that book.

The main reason I don't want a Kindle is because it makes every book look the same. James Walcott expounds on this point in the August 2009 issue of Vanity Fair:

Books not only furnish a room, to paraphrase the title of an Anthony Powell novel, but also accessorize our outfits. They help brand our identities. At the rate technology is progressing, however, we may eventually be traipsing around culturally nude in an urban rain forest, androids seamlessly integrated with our devices. As we divest ourselves of once familiar physical objects—digitize and dematerialize—we approach a Star Trek future in which everything can be accessed from the fourth dimension with a few clicks or terse audibles. Reading will forfeit the tactile dimension where memories insinuate themselves, reminding us of where and when D. H. Lawrence entered our lives that meaningful summer. “Darling, remember when we downloaded Sons and Lovers in Napa Valley?” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. The Barnes & Noble bookstore, with its coffee bar and authors’ readings, could go the way of Blockbuster as an iconic institution, depriving readers of the opportunity to mingle with their own kind and paw through magazines for free. Book-jacket design may become a lost art, like album-cover design, without which late-20th-century iconography would have been pauperized.

On this site, I'll be pairing people and their outfits with books. I will mostly do so in terms of design. I will also post pictures of people with books, such as this one:









If you want to tip me to a particular photograph of a person or book cover, please write a comment on the latest post or send me an email.