Long Live the Summer Sweater
Humidity, be damned.
One unforeseen consequence of this being one of the most uncomfortably hot New York summers in recent memory is that I—we—have been woefully deprived of any opportunity to wear a summer sweater.
You know the kind I’m talking about. A rakish, loose-knit thing in an off-white shade or hue that complements the sea. Salt-sprayed and worn, like an old paperback you bring to the beach. A sweater you can imagine emerging on the bow of a sailboat, or strung around the bare shoulders of an aging Frenchman, or on a log next to a bonfire where some dude is playing “Wonderwall” (again). Something like this.
There remains in this world of ease and efficiency something deliciously profligate about the summer sweater. Not just because of the wealthy Cape Cod of it all. But because the article itself can feel wonderfully excessive, running counter as it does to its own primary function (i.e., keeping you warm). Unless you’re on a fishing expedition, a summer sweater remains a contradiction in terms—a vestige of a time in menswear, replete with suits and void of shorts, where guys never seemed to actually break a sweat.
To wear one today, then, is to say, “Not this time, sun.” To say, “I’m totally cool and not at all perspiring right now.” To greet a chill in the air and remark, “This old thing?” before throwing it on and staring ponderously towards the horizon.
Below, a little inspiration (or motivation), should the humidity subside before summer’s end…
