Even suits need paper dolls.
La Cravate Hermès, printemps/été 2004.
There's an Hermès in Boston that I've never dared set foot in. Like one of my friends says, "If a place only sells three things, I'm sure I can't afford any of them." But that same friend brought me this catalogue of Hermès ties. It's tall and skinny, with life-size ties in a great variety of stripes and dots and little Hs, printed in full color on delicate white tissue.
I can't seem to stop playing with it: there's an insert with tie-shapes cut out of four shirts, so that you can lay it against any page to see how that tie would go with your wardrobe. (Your wardrobe, by the way, consists of a shirts in orange-red pinstripes, and one in that subdued, ubiquitous office-worker blue, and one with blue and white stripes and Hs, and one in brown-grey gingham. God knows mine does.)
There is no hint as to how one gets on the mailing list for this thing. There is an 800 number given for those who would like to be removed—but without a current issue, how would one answer that inevitable question, Quelle cravate aujourd'hui?
The J. Peterman Company: Owner's Manual No.23.
Flipping through a J. Peterman catalogue is like reading myself bedtime stories about clothes and tucking myself in to dream of being financially stable enough to buy an $88 skirt just so I can get on their mailing list.
The layout is clean without being stark. There is almost no photography, and certainly no photography of the merchandise: every item is represented by a carefully watercolored rendering and very cleverly written copy. I squint skeptically at the Indian Dress Ensemble (No.1331), and wonder what it might look like on me—then my eyes stray into the text and I know that I would look like a Bollywood star. I would be so attractive that I would have to burst into song at the slightest provocation. Most clothing catalogues like to subtly imply what sort of fabulous life those shoes are affiliated with, but J. Peterman's shamelessly gives you the entire backstory, like fake memories in a Blade Runner about a wholesome 1950s Beaded Cardigan (No.1330):
She wasn't the kind of girl you take down to the drive-in and do feverish things with.
If she had only let me carry her books, that alone would have made my whole semester.
I sigh, and rewrite my resume again.
Next catalogue: my high school crush, T26.
Sigh. It's all true.
Posted by: gwynne | 07 May 2004 at 09:45 AM
My father was, for whatever reason, on a variety of interesting mailing lists. Along with getting the J. Peterman catalog (always a favorite), my father (a graphic designer) would receive about 3-6 font catalogs weekly. He doesn't seem to get them as much anymore, but then the market has gotten much smaller and more insular. My favorite of course was House Industries. A kind of type library that seemed to have been discovered behind a painting of some long-dead Russian Constructavist. Also, they did not convort themselves like other type companies at the time. Rather than just a stapled sheaf of paper containing samples of all current offerings, HI's mailings would often be in color, and be filled with all kinds of non-font-selling-text. Also I believe they were the first company of this nature to sell swag --as if HI were your favorite band and you just TOTALLY NEEDED that T-shirt (which were admittedly pretty cool)
Posted by: brady | 07 May 2004 at 10:15 AM
I actually get House's mailings, which make nice posters. I love their swag, especially the throw pillows.
Posted by: sushiesque | 07 May 2004 at 10:24 AM
"Color: highly versatile Beige."
If I could be remembered by one thing only, it would be that.
Posted by: Tim | 07 May 2004 at 01:14 PM