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Three full days at Pitti feels a bit like a three-day binge on sweets, and it was with both relief and slight nausea that I followed @unbelragazzo out of the fortezza. A place called Milord was our first stop, and David was intent on showing me the very particular way in which Neapolitan and Florentine shoulder construction differs - and they differ in many ways, all of which are obscure and most of which I have forgotten. You may have heard the term spalla camicia if you’ve ever ventured into the dark realm that is Classic Menswear, and I can assure you that it is a real thing. It might have something to do with shirt sleeves.
Milord offered a large collection of jackets in patterns and colors that I didn’t particularly like. Much of the clothing on the ground floor was Milord’s house brand, which I am told is constructed by a respectful maker called Lubiam. I tried on a number of jackets, none of which seemed to fit me quite right. Maybe, I started to think, I wasn’t the right shape for the Neapolitans.
“Well, you’d have to get it tailored a bit,” was David’s regular suggestion. He didn’t sound excited about what we were seeing - and neither was I. Still, it was educational - for ten or fifteen minutes, I actually did know what spalla camicia meant and whether it was different from a natural shoulder or a waterfall shoulder; I could see the way that the jackets were meant to be worn, see what they were trying to be.
I have no distaste for classic tailoring, particularly when it’s viewed as only part of a much larger landscape of clothing. The clothing at Milord - even the upstairs, which offered brands like Boglioli and LBM 1911 - just didn’t get my blood pumping. Sure, maybe the fabric selection was exclusive, but look: I cut my teeth headhunting sport coats on Yoox, and nothing I saw made me feel I needed to change that. And so, feeling that exploring Neapolitan tailoring while in Florence was slightly blasphemous anyway, we made our way to Liverano & Liverano.
“What should I be expecting?” I asked David as we walked towards the Arno.
“It’s very three-dimensional,” he said. Right. Most clothing exists in three dimensions, David. Nevertheless, he was adamant that Liverano was something special. I had my doubts. But I was there to learn, and he had been an excellent sport at PN\P.
The shop was dark when we arrived, shuttered and boarded and very much closed for lunch. Disaster. David had a train to catch - there was no time to come back later. Just as we were about to give up and call the whole thing off, a small, well-dressed man arrived at the door behind us and went about unlocking it. David looked down and exclaimed “Ah! Signor Liverano!” Some discussion in Italian followed, the gist of which was that Signor Liverano - who resembles the world’s friendliest uncle, down to the bright waistcoat and loudly patterned tie - was more than happy that we should come inside and look around.
Liverano & Liverano’s shop is a modest space - tiled, unassuming, with some items hanging on racks and on coat hooks. There was no directionality, no curation, no rugs made of meters-long spirals of leather for me to trip over. Really, there was only one thing: beautiful clothing. Casentino outerwear, gorgeous long coats, half-completed examples of Signor Liverano’s famous bespoke service. I was nervous. Perhaps this was how David had felt at PN\P - slightly out of place, not entirely sure what the first step would be. He pulled down a jacket; a 44R, if memory serves. No luck - too wide in all places. A 40L, maybe? Nope. I began to fear that perhaps my destiny really did not include Italian tailoring.
And then Signor Liverano came to our rescue. “Questo,” he said, and reached up into the rack to pull down a beautiful three-button jacket in a lustrous midnight blue.
David said that when he put on the M.A.+ leather aviator at PN\P, he felt like Batman, like a hero. Despite my crew-neck tee, loose jeans and cowboy boots, I had a similar response when I looked in the three-way mirror:
The world is mine.
Suddenly, David’s insistence on three-dimensionality made sense. The front quarters peeled away with a splendor that made me think of bird’s wings, Ferraris and burnished armor; the lapel announced its presence with cannon fire. The jacket was alive; it sang to me, assured me that together, there was nothing beyond our reach. Even its reflection looked smug. It was not a piece that I could wear with faded denim and Vans slip-ons, not something to stuff into my suitcase without thinking; it was alien, monolithic, a gateway to another world.
Signor Liverano wore a very satisfied smile. I felt the sudden urge to bow.
Milord offered a large collection of jackets in patterns and colors that I didn’t particularly like. Much of the clothing on the ground floor was Milord’s house brand, which I am told is constructed by a respectful maker called Lubiam. I tried on a number of jackets, none of which seemed to fit me quite right. Maybe, I started to think, I wasn’t the right shape for the Neapolitans.
“Well, you’d have to get it tailored a bit,” was David’s regular suggestion. He didn’t sound excited about what we were seeing - and neither was I. Still, it was educational - for ten or fifteen minutes, I actually did know what spalla camicia meant and whether it was different from a natural shoulder or a waterfall shoulder; I could see the way that the jackets were meant to be worn, see what they were trying to be.
I have no distaste for classic tailoring, particularly when it’s viewed as only part of a much larger landscape of clothing. The clothing at Milord - even the upstairs, which offered brands like Boglioli and LBM 1911 - just didn’t get my blood pumping. Sure, maybe the fabric selection was exclusive, but look: I cut my teeth headhunting sport coats on Yoox, and nothing I saw made me feel I needed to change that. And so, feeling that exploring Neapolitan tailoring while in Florence was slightly blasphemous anyway, we made our way to Liverano & Liverano.
“What should I be expecting?” I asked David as we walked towards the Arno.
“It’s very three-dimensional,” he said. Right. Most clothing exists in three dimensions, David. Nevertheless, he was adamant that Liverano was something special. I had my doubts. But I was there to learn, and he had been an excellent sport at PN\P.
The shop was dark when we arrived, shuttered and boarded and very much closed for lunch. Disaster. David had a train to catch - there was no time to come back later. Just as we were about to give up and call the whole thing off, a small, well-dressed man arrived at the door behind us and went about unlocking it. David looked down and exclaimed “Ah! Signor Liverano!” Some discussion in Italian followed, the gist of which was that Signor Liverano - who resembles the world’s friendliest uncle, down to the bright waistcoat and loudly patterned tie - was more than happy that we should come inside and look around.
Liverano & Liverano’s shop is a modest space - tiled, unassuming, with some items hanging on racks and on coat hooks. There was no directionality, no curation, no rugs made of meters-long spirals of leather for me to trip over. Really, there was only one thing: beautiful clothing. Casentino outerwear, gorgeous long coats, half-completed examples of Signor Liverano’s famous bespoke service. I was nervous. Perhaps this was how David had felt at PN\P - slightly out of place, not entirely sure what the first step would be. He pulled down a jacket; a 44R, if memory serves. No luck - too wide in all places. A 40L, maybe? Nope. I began to fear that perhaps my destiny really did not include Italian tailoring.
And then Signor Liverano came to our rescue. “Questo,” he said, and reached up into the rack to pull down a beautiful three-button jacket in a lustrous midnight blue.
David said that when he put on the M.A.+ leather aviator at PN\P, he felt like Batman, like a hero. Despite my crew-neck tee, loose jeans and cowboy boots, I had a similar response when I looked in the three-way mirror:
The world is mine.
Suddenly, David’s insistence on three-dimensionality made sense. The front quarters peeled away with a splendor that made me think of bird’s wings, Ferraris and burnished armor; the lapel announced its presence with cannon fire. The jacket was alive; it sang to me, assured me that together, there was nothing beyond our reach. Even its reflection looked smug. It was not a piece that I could wear with faded denim and Vans slip-ons, not something to stuff into my suitcase without thinking; it was alien, monolithic, a gateway to another world.
Signor Liverano wore a very satisfied smile. I felt the sudden urge to bow.
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