Bespoke days

The clothes, mostly TRW, hang there like memories.

When this column comes out, people my age have been forbidden from going anywhere else for fifteen months, the length of time Da Goffer had sat on the hospital bills stamped urgent.

CLOTHES THAT FIT PERFECTLY

With nowhere to go (pun intended), we golden men have settled much too comfortably in our pambahay t-shirts and boxer shorts, with our dingaling feeling the breeze and seeing more of the light these days.

And then I have a glimpse of KDramas and I see these chiseled guys looking impeccable and elegant in their suits.

They go into a combat with baddies and still come up looking uncrumpled. Just like James Bond when Pierce Brosnan was it.

All these guys, I read, wore bespoke clothes – a key phrase that is supposed to bestow distinction.

When you wear bespoke clothes, you belong to a privileged few. It means you have the wherewithal to have clothes made specially for you.

CONSTRUCTION AND DECONSTRUCTION

With the booming population of the world, ready-to-wear or off-the-rack clothes seem to be the best way to go, much like with vaccines. Huwag ka nang maghanap ng iba.

The only modification you could do with RTW pants was to have the laylayan shortened or sewed up.

During my teenage days, you could go to a tailor and have the whole pants deconstructed and have them fit you, with the best craftsman not losing a beat with the piston or crease.

I suspect my generation was the last saling-lahi that enjoyed bespoke clothes en-masse, paradoxical that may seem.

Clothes were made perfect to the fraction of a millimeter to fit the most mishappen. You did not have to be rich.

We lived in the projects. Across our house were two Kafamfangan tailors with catchy brands – Joe Master and Tulume. One sounding contemporary, the other exotic.

FIRST TASTE OF BESPOKE CLOTHES

I had my first taste of bespoke clothes when, one day, my father brought home shiny cloths and we went to Tulume to have them done into “continental” pants.

I had just then graduated from my khaki shorts.

My dad was a painter and was ma-porma, a natty dresser. He had Kafamfangan blood, so he and the tailor understood the same language, literally and otherwise.

His sartorial fondness rubbed a bit on me, I guess.

In high school, I would save money to have shoes and clothes pasadya, or done particularly to fit me. Not some Freeman “trubinized” shirts from Quiapo, nor fit-to-metal-feet Greg shoes.

THE PROCESS OF PASADYA

You have to be patient with the process, though. I am addressing this to the millennials.

First, the craftsman measures you. Then, based on those numbers, he cuts the padron or pattern.

Watch how the tailors use the wax pencils with deft and dance and be mesmerized.

Based on the pattern, they cut the material into parts and sew them temporarily.

Then they call you for a fitting, to determine what adjustments they should make before “locking in” the whole garment of footwear.

I remember having pigskin sandals made in Glenmore Shoes and did not like the fit. The cobblers graciously repeated the whole process until I was satisfied.

PASSIONATE TAILORS

My high school buddies, for a stretched of time, went to Bulacan and bought “grease” cloths to have them made into shirts.

These cloths came in fascinating pastel colors and were meant for farmers. You could surmise, our rural folks had their clothes done bespoke, too.

We had our own quirky designs and probably ignored function, from the collar to the tail of the shirt. The proprietor-tailor at Philam Park was always game to humor us with our pasadya.

I remember having a long sleeve shirt done that ballooned around the forearms.

My college friend, Manny O, used to scour the Divisoria dry goods section to look for retazos or discarded pieces of cloths from the USA.

It was never easy assembling pieces whose prints and textures we fancy that would make for a shirt.

You have to go through bales of infinitely assorted left-over cloths in one store, and then in another. It was torture to my asthma.

Since the bales probably belonged to a batch of discards, it was possible to come out victorious with patience.

FOR WHAT ENDS?

We would reward ourselves with street food noodles or quikiam after. And off to our separate tailors we went.

Nowadays, with times still uncertain, we could only reminisce about those bespoke days.

There is certain gloriousness when you explore the possibilities of aesthetics to human function and even rationale for existence.

These are what impels when we build our dream houses, or re-arrange our salas, or choose our cars.

I have to confess I wish to relive those fun times of sartorial indulgence.

Not for pamburol. No. After all, hardly anybody displays dead bodies these days.

I just wish to make a simple statement against the imprisoning all-size-fits-all frame of mind. - 30