#danielpenny

With so many moving parts, the packing of what we actually planned to take with us fell low on our list of priorities. I knew there would be things we couldn’t bring; some pieces of furniture and plants were being taken under temporary custody by friends and family, and the rest I had to sell on Instagram. And there was plenty of junk to clear out. Over the course of the summer, a steady stream of random objects made their way to our brownstone’s stoop: a well-loved yellow Le Creuset tea kettle, a broody Gerhart Richter poster, a Christmas tree stand. This was all easy enough to part with--things I liked at one time, had served me dutifully, but now had to leave my possession.

Normally, when I take a trip, I’m a ruthless packer. When my wife and I went on our honeymoon to Paris and Sicily a few years ago in late September, the weather was already turning crisp in the city of lights, but the sun was shining steadily on the ruins of Syracuse. Weaker souls would have checked a bag, but we did three weeks with a carry-on each, rewearing the same stuff, washing things as needed, and enjoying the freedom of being unencumbered (and the joys of eating delicious food and having put our wedding behind us). But this trip was different. I would not be returning to my closet and wardrobe filled with all the things I’d elected not to bring. This would be a final parting, and I was reluctant to let go of any of my hard-won treasures. The hours spent on eBay alone!

When September rolled around and I still hadn’t cleared out my closet, my wife’s occasionally disapproving glances turned into full time pestering--with good reason. Like many wannabe-gurus in the world of men’s fashion, I’ve long preached buying better and less, but that doesn’t mean I actually take my own advice. After living in New York for nine years and only moving once (to the apartment above our first place), I had accumulated a lot of stuff: ten pairs of jeans, six pairs of chinos and cords four sport coats, three suits, a tuxedo, a half-dozen jackets and coats, way too many ties, shorts and swimsuits, athletic gear, mountains of socks and underwear and old T-shirts, two dozen pairs of shoes, and enough sweaters to knit a flock of sheep. It was an embarrassment of riches.

What’s worse, I’d been insisting that my wife was the one with the fashion problem. That she needed to get rid of things we couldn’t possibly bring to England. Old J.Crew stuff she never wore anymore, cheap jeans with holes not worth repairing. My therapist would call this a case of projection. With only three days before our flight, it came time to actually pack, and my wife did so with ease--while I was jumping on my suitcase and wrestling the zippers shut. In the end, I had dozens of items that couldn’t make the cut, and bid my farewells.

The past decade has seen a vogue for capsule wardrobes, closet edits, and decluttering. Each has its own philosophy for how you should decide what to keep or discard: Does it work with your other clothes in nearly infinite combinations? Does it spark joy? I can’t say I was so methodical in my selection. Mostly I kept my nicest things and tossed what I’d held onto beyond its prime, or that no longer fit, or what was no longer in fashion. What I had cherished and hoarded left my apartment in garbage bags, dumped unceremoniously at a local thrift store. Nobody wanted to buy them, so I had to give them away.

At the time, I was seeing more women embrace fuller clothes, and the idea intrigued me, but like many men, I was also a bit of a coward, and so to bolster my confidence in this new style, I began my search with the most manly (and cost effective) garments I could muster--military vintage and reproductions. On a website specializing in gear for military reenactors, those strange men who dress up in period costume to relive the heroism (and more often barbarism) of their forefathers, I stumbled upon a pair of tan cotton drill gurkhas that struck my fancy. Supposedly made for British officers during World War II, they had not one, but two reverse pleats, side adjusters, and a massively high waist with a two button closure. How could a pair of pants that looked like this suddenly seem cool to me? They didn’t hug the body or end in tiny, four-inch cuffs. My eye had grown so atrophied from staring at little stick legs that these pants barely looked like pants at all. In that moment, everything I had believed about fashion came under suspicion.

I hesitated with my cursor over the “buy” button. Then I remembered the courage of the British officers who’d valiantly worn them in battle. Certainly I was brave enough to order some clothes online. When the pants arrived, I opened the package and swathed myself in cotton drill. The waist fit well, but the quantity of fabric had me second-guessing my decision. My legs floated inside, hidden in a way that was both modest and strangely sexy. Seeing a photo via text, my brother described them as “A big mood.”

Trying to keep things simple, I tucked in a fresh white T-shirt and decided to take my new pants for a spin. The swish swish of the pants was refreshing, and the breeze positively invigorating. They flapped, they rustled, they billowed! Those years spent sweating through the summer in APCs, my closely held devotion to Hedi Slimane--it all suddenly seemed so foolish, so unnecessary. I didn’t have to suffer anymore.

1) Cut a band collar on an old shirt. This is an easy place to start; all you need are scissors and a shirt whose collar is either too large, too small, or stained beyond the power of Oxi-clean. The trick is to choose a shirt with a more casual fabric, like a chambray, oxford, or linen, and to just follow the seam that connects the collar to the body of the shirt. Loose threads are an inevitability. Embrace them as part of this easy and breezy DIY.

2) Hand wash and dry your clothes. Because I’m just dripping in sauce, both literal and metaphorical, I have found myself needing to hand-wash my clothes. Also, I don’t have laundry in my building and my local wash-and-fold closed permanently. So I don’t really have a choice. It’s a great opportunity to wash those things that you know you shouldn’t be putting in the machine, so instead you’ve stuffed them in a ball next to your hamper. Sitting on my toilet and crouched over my bathtub, as I wrung out my wet pants was a great way to learn that I really don’t need that many pairs of pants!

3) Re-color a pair of old brogues. This one was a little more out there. A year ago, I bought a pair of burgundy Allen Edmond wingtips on eBay and found that while I liked the idea of the color, they didn’t go with anything in my wardrobe. Then I had the brilliant idea of dying them black. All you need is acetone-based nail polish remover to take the old color and wax off, some leather dye and polish in a darker color, an old bit of fabric (your shirt collar perhaps?) and you’re set. Between the different coats and drying times, this one takes many hours, perfect for breaking up the monotony of the days in quarantine. As you polish up your almost new dress shoes, consider all the great occasions you’ll have to show them off at some indistinct but hopefully near point in the future.

4) Shibori your own mask. For the man who has everything by Blue Blue Japan and needs more, this is the DIY for you. I didn’t actually do this one, but at the beginning of the pandemic when I didn’t have a mask, I did cover my face with a bandana that I’d already Shibori-dyed. And I was the flyest looking bank robber on the block.