To Monogram or Not to Monogram

The Baron Louis J. Esterhazy — of the famed Hungarian Esterhazy clan — muses on the rights, and wrongs, of men’s monogramming.

Editor’s Note: The Hungarian Countess Louise J. Esterhazy was a revered — and feared — chronicler of the highs — and generally lows — of fashion, society, culture and more. Over the course of several decades (although she never really counted and firmly avoided any reference to her age), the Countess penned her missives from her pied-à-terres in Manhattan, Nantucket, Paris, London and Gstaad, as well as wherever her travels took her, from California to Morocco.

And it seems the Esterhazy clan by nature is filled with strong opinions, because WWD Weekend has now been contacted by the Countess' long-lost nephew, the Baron Louis J. Esterhazy, who has written from Europe to express his abhorrence about numerous modern fashion and cultural developments. The Baron's pen is as sharp as his late aunt's and, so, here is his first column about what he considers a bane of modern men's dress: the monogrammed shirt.

As standards of men's dress sense slide inexorably downhill toward everyone, everywhere and always wearing only flammable sportswear, one has to applaud the fellow who hails back a generation or two and still turns himself out like a 1960s Hollywood screen swoon.

When I was born — like my beloved late Aunt Louise, I am not saying when — most men wore hats, all the time. My papa wore a bowler hat to the office, where he did nothing but make diary dates for dinner parties, weekend pheasant shoots and jollies on other people's yachts. Any photograph from prior to 1962 shows not a bare head in the crowd.

My youngest progeny commented recently as I waited at airport security to fly to our schloss in the Alps: “Look, you are the only man in this whole line wearing proper shoes.” It was not a compliment. I think she sees me as a sartorial dinosaur.

The same daughter and I developed a game which passed the time — especially well in an airport — which involved giving scores out of 10 to fellow passengers for being “properly dressed.” For a man, a suit or coat and tie (never a jacket, as “potatoes have jackets”) warranted an immediate high score, as did “proper shoes.” “Trackies” or any form of athletic gear hammered an individual's grading. We barely ever awarded a 10….The average was probably close to a miserable score of three. And that was grading on a curve.

And so we come to the frippery of fashion — when even an item many men might consider “proper dress” actually is anything but.

Take the monogrammed shirt. Now, don't get me wrong, I love a monogram. A friend once said if our West Highland Terrier sat still for long enough, I'd monogram him. Monogramming is an atavistic reaction for those, like most Esterhazys, who were sent to boarding school at too young an age. It's marking our territory and discourages petty theft. My washbag, hairbrushes, shoe bags, luggage, gunslips, briefcases, diary, overnight bag, suit carrier and notepad are all initialed. My grandfather had an entire valise of brushes, combs and silver topped glass bottles for hair lotions and potions — all monogrammed. (That thing would surely struggle through airport security today!)

I do, however, draw the line at the monogrammed shirt. Now, I know many a reader — especially in the U.S. and continental Europe — will take exception to this. My German wife (aka the Generalquartiermeister) tells of her beloved father, who was a noted dandy of his day, not only had every shirt monogrammed, but also had a piece of bespoke furniture built wherein each shirt had its very own draw. She is a big supporter of initialed shirts as being the true mark of a gentleman.

But I beg to differ entirely because, long ago an oceangoing snob (OK, my father) once told me that one should take pity on the man who has his initials put on his shirt. That's because in times gone by, while the true gentleman had his laundry done at home by the household servants and dutifully returned to his dressing-room cupboards by his personal valet, the “middle manager” was required to send his shirts out, down the road to the local washerwoman. The initials on the shirt indicated to said washer women which house the items should be returned to. Hence, the pity thing. (I'm not saying my father was politically correct; god forbid what the reaction to many of his thoughts would be today.)

These days, prominently displayed shirt initials simply shout with great volume that the shirt is expensive and bespoke. Surely, redundant on a well-made shirt?

Another risqué fashion move for a fellow, which also shouts a tad loud, is the Prince of Wales checked suit. One can all but hear it screaming from inside a man's closet. One well-dressed friend once wisely and succinctly said to me: “Prince of Wales suit, eh? Never, unless one is…and you certainly ain't!”

I recently came across a jovial man “in the fashion industry” at a Paris dinner party who was sporting a “PoW” checked suit so garish that I thought him to be an old-fashioned circus clown, who hadn't the chance to change his outfit before leaving the Big Top after a long day's work. I couldn't help but ask him: “Did you actually buy that, or was it given you as a practical joke?” His reply can't be repeated — but luckily did not result in violence.

Lastly, returning to the theme of putting one's initials on things, all men I know who shoot (I am, of course, talking pheasants, partridge and grouse) have an initialed cartridge bag. This is for a good purpose. When one arrives at the next “drive” and reaches into the rear of the mud spattered Range Rover, there may be up to five or six cartridge bags laying around…all elegantly battered and patinaed through good usage over many decades. Taking another man's cartridge bag would be nearly as wrong as taking another man's wife; hence the monogram is vital. (As an aside, perhaps I should monogram the Generalquartiermeister, although perhaps that is not PC either?)

However, there is one exception to this, which I heard just this past shooting season. For those who are truly and properly grand (or pretending to be), the question posed is, “What is a cartridge bag?” Because, of course, the truly privileged won't carry their own cartridges or cartridge bag. They have a man-servant, or ‘loader,' to do the carrying and the loading of shells into the end of the shotgun barrels. This question therefore is the hunting equivalent to Downton Abbey's Dowager Countess of Grantham's now famous question: “And, what is a weekend?”

Those were the days.