Bruce Boyer on The Duke of Windsor

In one form or another, mod dominated the ’sixties. It was kooky, kinky, funky. Whether in homespun chic like the mink-lined cowboy jacket, or psychedelic platform shoes; in Edwardian ruffled and laced dinner suits, or sequined pre-faded blue work shirts. It was all mod.

What began as a conscious affectation in the beginning became a uniform as the decade advanced. Fashion, which had always been set in the Paris salons and on Savile Row, was being set in the streets. In a reverse flow, the old Levis which used to be seen only on ranchmen and lower-class youth were showing up in St. Moritz. This “doctored” version—pre-shrunk, pre-faded, pre-worn, and pre-patched—was purchased in a Paris boutique for $30.

What began with a youth revolt against the drab, colorless, formless look of the ’fifties turned into a full-scale sartorial revolution in the ’sixties. Looking at an early photo of the Beatles, we find it difficult to see why so many were so upset by that half-inch of hair falling over the ears. But our hindsight reaction is explained by the fashion revolution of the past decade. Today, of course, it’s not extraordinary to find a banker with longer hair than the Beatles first wore.

But mod is dead. After thirty years, the Duke is back.

The lace and the ruffles, the velvet and the fringe, the huge sprawling collars and the paddle-sized ties, the platform shoes and the psychedelic shirts are going, and gone. Surely over the next few seasons one will still be able to find a few dinosaurs wearing green velvet sneakers. But they’re already just so many walking anachronisms. As a fashion concept, mod is no longer to be reckoned with.

The classical, the elegant and bespoke, the pin-striped, regimental-tied, the flannel and tweeded country-gentleman Duke of Windsor Look is here.

The white shirt—which has not been seen for years—is the dernier cri.

And if there is one name that keeps cropping up in men’s fashion over the past season it is that of the Duke of Windsor. Back in September, Esquire said: “The fashion message is clear; the Duke of Windsor Look is having a notable revival.” And the winter Gentlemen’s Quarterly seems to be devoted to the Duke, with an article entitled “Who’s Elegant … And Who Isn’t,” which compares him with the likes of James Taylor, Muhammad Ali, all the Rockefellers, and others.

What is less obvious is the real nature of that fashion influence. It is superficially easy enough to account for the Duke’s popularity:

1. He has now passed on. It always helps for heroes to be dead, as it makes them usually more predictable.
2. He was part of an era, the ’thirties, which is currently enjoying a nostalgic revival. Almost everything a part of the ’thirties, including gangsters and the Depression, is looked at through rose-colored glasses.
3. The idea of fashion itself is once again popular, in the broadest possible sense. It is, in fact, an industry which manufactures style—i.e., styles. Since the Duke was pre-eminently a fashion setter, one would be surprised if he were not considered.
4. In the popular mind he remains one of the very few untainted heroes of the recent past. Further, he represents those great sentimental ideals of love and sincerity which have absented themselves from contemporary reality in large measure. It is felt, for example, that any number of our term-serving politicians would give up their wives to be king.
5. He seems never to have been blatantly offensive (except perhaps the time he wore suede shoes in the States), and so could not be considered controversial.

In short, he comes to represent the modern ideal, the symbol of our contemporary mores and values: superficial yet idealistic, casual yet gracious, a born aristocrat yet willing to hobnob. An excellent example of the modern tendency for form to replace content. Style becomes everything. Looking at the family portraits at Windsor one day, the Duke commented that “they show, I am gratified to observe, that the kings of England and their relatives were, on the whole, well enough dressed.” The packaging seems to be everything, and the Duke would probably have agreed with Oscar Wilde that cavaliers and Puritans are more interesting for their costumes than for their convictions.

Fashionably, however, what is interesting is not the Duke’s symbolic worth, but rather his style. While it has roundly been acceded that the Duke of Windsor has been a primary influencer of fashion for the past half-century, there has been little real analysis of that style—the Duke of Windsor Look.

It is profitable first to put him into perspective. In his article “The Peacock Revolution” for Esquire back in 1968, George Frazier, a fastidious fashion critic, selected Cary Grant, Fred Astaire, Jimmy Walker, and the Duke of Windsor as the exemplary fashion figures of the twentieth century, adding rather nicely: “What television has presented, however, is the sight of the unsightly, giving us a window on the world of the worst dressed.” It could not have been put better.

As for Grant, Astaire, and the Duke of Windsor, comparison can prove rewarding. They are all “English” in tone: correct, witty, slim, reserved, proper (as opposed to swarthy, baroque, mysterious, erratic, flamboyant, and the like). They all were English tailored. After he had become Governor of the Bahamas, the Duke did have his trousers made by a New York tailor, although the Duke was quick to point out that the man had “served his apprenticeship in London.”

It is possible to write volumes on the virtues of the London tailor. But the touchstone is that he is able to achieve style with a timelessness of form. The rest of the tailors are either de rigueur or just dull. One is able to look at a photo of Grant, or Astaire, or the Duke without embarrassment, without laughing at “that funny little coat” or those baggy trousers that haunt our old photos. Without style, old photos are like old political speeches: just naïve promises that didn’t age well.

If one looks at enough photos of Cary Grant, Fred Astaire, and the Duke of Windsor, it is possible to see that they shared four fashion attributes: comfort, fit, modification, and imitation. There is considerable overlap in each category, but the compartmentalization is necessary here.

These fashion influencers were, in fact, conscious of bringing a new dimension into fashion: comfort. For Astaire certainly, because he had to dance vigorously in his tailoring; but Grant and the Duke no less. There is that kind of casual perfection here which probably follows as much from a desire as a need to be more active in public and private life. The ability to move freely and still be pressed is seen as a goal again and again in the Duke’s appearance.

He states in his autobiographical Windsor Revisited:

“All my life hitherto, I had been fretting against those constrictions of dress which restricted my ancestors’ world of rigid social convention. In no way was this reflected more than in my dress. It was my impulse, whenever I found myself alone, to remove my coat, rip off my tie, loosen my collar, and roll up my sleeves—a gesture aspiring not merely to comfort but, in a more symbolic sense, to freedom.” (p. 152)

And in a succinct sentence which has as much history as fashion in it, he characterizes the period between the wars:

“Comfort and freedom were the two principles that underlay the changes in male fashions throughout the freer and easier democratic age between the first World War and the second.” (p. 158)

The Duke seems to have waged a single-handed war of his own with starch and won freedom from the red neck for us all. The liberation from stiff collars and cuffs and other non-essentials was of historic importance for him:

“Already I had taken to wearing a soft shirt with single-breasted dinner jacket, and if my shirt was stiff, my cuffs were now often soft. I was still faithful to the stiff collar, but it was usually of the comfortable turned-down variety. … Meanwhile, however, we began to find that with the double-breasted dinner jacket, a soft collar looked just as neat as a stiff one, and by the ’thirties we were all beginning to ‘dress soft,’ thus combining as no previous generation had done, sartorial dignity with comfort and ease.” (p. 158)

And one senses again and again in all three stylists the attempt to pare away excess, trim ornamentation, be rid of nonfunctional accessories. Utility within the confines of propriety. Modern dress, as mirrored in and directed by these men, may be thought of as a movement toward functional simplicity. The only jewelry the Duke wore were cuff links and shirt studs for evening, and his ring. Along the way he also discarded the waistcoat, which he was quick to see as unnecessary with a double-breasted jacket.

As an interesting fashion footnote, it should be understood that the Duke was so concerned with function in dress that he invented a special type of safari shorts. These shorts had a pair of legs that rolled up and buttoned above the knee to offer coolness in open country and could be let down to provide protection in the bush. These he wore in East Africa, much to his satisfaction. One can only believe that the designing of functional fashions was not considered a trivial pastime by the Duke. It was a proud, worthy, even artistic pursuit.

The second quality, probably the most important distinguishing mark, was the realization that fit is of supreme importance. Cut is everything. It is impossible to overstate the concern with proper proportion, the regard for exact measurement.

It had early been instilled in the Duke of Windsor by both his father and his grandfather that a gentleman always wore well-made clothes. On one occasion his father wrote with special instructions not even to allow his hair to be cut by the local barbers at college, but to wait until he returned to London to have a trim by a particular Piccadilly barber.

And he carefully noted this about the Prince Consort:

“His clothes, as I remember from my youth, were always elegant, fitting tight at the waist. But they were so well cut that they were somehow able to conceal the fact that he had lost his figure years before.” (p. 50)

For many years the Duke frequented a tailor named Scholte, a Dutchman by birth, who was even by the Duke’s estimation a stickler for precision and detail. And as with many artists, Scholte was a temperamental craftsman who would tolerate no meddling with his creations. He ran his shop like a dictator and refused to compromise his high standards, regardless of the wealth or prestige of the client. An American ambassador to Britain once made the mistake of bringing his wife along to Scholte’s, and she made the mistake of criticizing the fit of the suit the tailor had made for her husband. Scholte immediately stopped the fitting. “Don’t bring that damned woman in here again,” was his curt advice to the ambassador. The ambassador returned alone for his next fitting.

The Duke was particularly amused when a close friend, Captain Edward “Fruity” Metcalfe, was for a time banished from Scholte’s because he had committed the sin of asking the illustrious tailor for wider lapels.

Scholte’s ability was best seen in the perfect proportion he was able to effect between the shoulders and the waist—a measure which for the discerning eye tells all. In order to understand how Scholte was able to cut so perfect a balance, several less scrupulous tailors even went to the point of buying suits from him by posing as legitimate clients. Back in their own shops they would open the seams and study the cut of the cloth to discover Scholte’s secret. Apparently they never did. The Duke had the highest regard for this man’s talent.

That, however, is by no means the complete story of the Duke’s regard for tailoring. The fact is that, while Scholte cut the perfect coat, the Duke was never completely satisfied with the way he cut the trousers. On a visit to New York, after he had been appointed Governor of the Bahamas, he happened to find a tailor named Harris who cut his trousers so well that from then on he had his jackets made in London by Scholte and his trousers made in New York by Harris.

Third, the attribute of modification, or what the stylist does with the tradition in which he finds himself. The Duke of Windsor’s innovative ability was considerable, and he is credited as the popularizer of numerous accoutrements: cuffs on the trousers, suede shoes, Fair Isle sweaters and socks, the spread-collar shirt, brightly checked sports tweeds, the tuxedo-style dinner jacket, blue-and-red brigade ties, the chalk-striped double-breasted lounge suit, the Windsor knot.

It would appear that he saw himself as an innovator and popularizer. He should, in truth, be considered more of a creator than Astaire, who, as Frazier points out, “never inspired any new style among the masses.” Always modest, the Duke stressed that he never sought consciously to set himself up as a fashion plate, while at the same time professing an awareness of his influence.

The evidence would indicate rather that he was extremely careful not only about his appearance but also about starting trends as well. In this respect, the fashions he tried to launch for the ultimate good of others are the best remembered: the once-again-popular Fair Isle knitted sweaters and socks, which he hoped would bring financial relief to the Hebridean weavers; or the straw boater, on which the fate of the Luton straw-hat industry depended. Here the Duke was fond of a rhymed advertisement for the hat:

Boaters Ahoy!

Two “boaters” afloat in Leicester Square

God bless the Prince of Wales.

Now you bright young things who always swear,

Whatever else that fails,

To follow his lead — your duty indeed

Is clear-cut and simple. ’Tis that

No matter what urgent claims others may plead

You purchase a new boater hat.

Not much as poetry, perhaps, but the implication is obvious: you too can be a prince in your little straw skimmer.

In this connection, the so-called Windsor knot represents an interesting study. The Windsor knot was a grotesquely large double knot tied in a rather slim tie. It was particularly popular in the States in the forties and early fifties, and worn even later by die-hard hipsters to accompany an outlandish roll-collared shirt called a “Mr. B” (after a famous singer of the era). It had started as an imitation of the larger knotted ties worn by the Duke.

The Duke had seen the necessity for a larger knot than was customarily worn to accent the spread-collar shirt and medium-width lapels of his jacket. To achieve a larger knot he had his haberdasher, Hawes & Curtis in this case, use a thicker lining in the construction of his ties. He never tied the knot named after him. That came about as a valiant attempt to duplicate the larger knot worn by the Duke.

Usually, as it was worn, the Windsor knot looked like a cloth fist under the throat. It’s ironic that such a fine eye for detail should be credited with producing such an unaesthetic item, but the history of the Windsor knot is one of fashion’s finest examples of style exaggerated to flamboyance—of a discerning detail turned into a gimmick.

From chronologically arranged photos of the Duke it is possible to trace his fashion development from one empire uniform to another, one evening suit to another, one tweed jacket, lounge suit, Fair Isle sweater, bowler, striped jersey, one suede shoe to another. The emphasis is to modify—usually with an accessory or a functional reduction—without exaggeration, and without a radical break with tradition. Quality without stiffness, individuality without exaggeration could well have been his fashion motto.

No one understands Aristotle’s advice “Know thyself” better than the Man of Fashion. To study a man like Cary Grant, or Astaire, or the Duke of Windsor is to realize that they understood their limitations. It is too facile to believe that, as is often said, they would have looked good in anything. Those who say that fail to understand that style calls for high discrimination and much introspection as well as the normal expert eye for line, color, and detail.

The Duke was not only aware of the smallest detail in his own appearance; he could actually be considered something of an expert on the history of modern costume. He was able to trace the history of many styles and could discuss in great detail and with considerable authority the history of trousers, tweeds, the lounge suit, cravats, waistcoats, frock coats, the Eton jacket, the Windsor uniform, walking sticks, suede shoes, and almost every other item of modern dress. He can be considered an authority on the question of why the bottom button of the waistcoat is left undone, who introduced the trouser crease, why the cutaway was replaced by the frock coat, and other points of legitimate historical concern.

When it came to his own reasons for discrimination, he was inclined to profess great disinterest, as for example in a small detail such as the number of sleeve buttons:

“I prefer four buttons on my coat sleeve … but I cannot give any logical reason why I do. Even one button seems superfluous.” (p. 167)

The interesting point is that he did prefer four buttons! Most men don’t even know how many buttons are on their jacket sleeve and couldn’t care less. They will settle for as many buttons as are fashionable at the time.

One way to understand how the Man of Fashion comes to terms with his limitations is to consider how an illusion of ideal proportion is achieved through modification.

The Duke of Windsor, for instance, was not a tall man. But, unless there is some objective basis for perspective, it’s difficult to determine that. He wore his jackets just the slightest bit short, the shoulders not too broad, narrower lapels, even the spread-collar shirt; all tend to increase the stature of a slight frame. And we can only surmise that this was the intent.

The perfect cut, by modern aesthetic standards, will elongate the body line and prevent a “sectioned” look. The liability is that it can spill over into extreme formality, tending to a very pressed appearance, like the old trussed-up pietera. To avoid the stiffness of formality, the Duke brightened himself with color and pattern. As opposed to Cary Grant, who seems always to have favored more somber shades (as a tall man, Grant had no problem presenting a long line), the Duke took to bold checks and stripes. The combination of different checks can even be considered one of his fashion trademarks.

This business of combining patterns is a dangerous feat to attempt. It is almost never carried off well. A Duke of Windsor can wear a checked topcoat with a differently checked suit, a striped shirt with a checked tie and get away with it. For most men even the problem of combining colors is too much, and when patterns are involved they come out looking like quick escapes from a midnight fire.

Today’s attempt to return to the Windsor Age of Elegance falls considerably short of the mark. The Windsor Look is being hustled because it is thought it still will sell. At best it is merely an indication that the excesses of the past several seasons (the airplane-wing lapels, the two-inch-high collars, the needless chain belts, the platform shoes, bell-bottoms) were so thoroughly ugly that even gullible souls with ready cash could not be convinced that they would be anything more than incidental vulgarity.

On the other hand, it is difficult to imagine that the Windsor Look will last for any length of time, either. For most it will be merely something new or different. There is little chance of genuine acceptance, because there is really no preparation for it since novelty replaced quality.

Then too, it is ironic that the Duke, who was never a slavish follower of fads, should himself become one. His style, his introspection, his awareness of his limitations led him to construct a look that was correct for him—his social position, his physical characteristics, his lifestyle, his activities. Even though he would listen to others, particularly Captain Metcalfe (whom he called his “Master of the Wardrobe”), he was prone to follow his own lights.

This is perhaps the genius of the innovator: to modify tradition just enough to suit one’s purposes, to bend custom just enough to make it workable on the personal level, to shape one’s environment just enough to fit in comfortably. And as a fashion innovator the Duke of Windsor had few peers.