Giving up bespoke

 I will admit that on occasion I have been known to steal away a few minutes from the crowd and clandestinely- with a hat covering my face- buy off the rack apparel. Once I came across a suit that had the details and lining to tempt me a fitting. I sneaked into the fitting room, hurriedly suited myself and looking into the mirror I did admire the fine posture and tailoring. Of course I had one or two details I was not happy about but in all sincerity the suit was wearable.

 It was a Gucci suit, brown pin striped, single button, light wool and thin lapels. I bought it, and when I arrived in my apartment I nicely cut off all Gucci insignia before taking it to my tailor for “enhancements”. My tailor was visibly distraught-but the financial crisis meant he could not turn away a customer and so agreed to the enhancement. Being curious he tried to find the label of the suit but none sufficed, he turned to me and I remained as brood as ever and did not bat an eye-lid. After sitting down and agreeing on the amendments I happily returned a week later to a well fitting suit. To ensure my tailor remained happy I ordered a shirt from him.

Bespoke ( cloth/fabric in the tailor’s shop that has already been spoken for)suit tailoring is a dying art and Savile Row remains unflinchingly dedicated to this art. We live in a world of instant gratification, instant coffee and instant Polaroid.  Instant coffee- which by the way is not coffee at all- takes roughly 7 minutes less to make than filter coffee (provided the beans have already been roasted.

If it takes time and consideration then perhaps it is not worth it the current mantra goes. This is a funny state of affairs- Ipad2 is introduced even before one has gotten around to unpacking Ipad1. Some may want to motivate the reasons for this, but I cannot understand why. Medical reports allude to life expectancy increasing and yet people can no longer wait. It is good to know I will live longer than the six week wait for a suit, but more importantly I do not suffer from buyer’s remorse a disease those people in high street suffer from.  Indeed, Instant joys are never everlasting; they fizzle out as quickly as they come.

It is easy to be dismissive of my treatise as pure snobbery or aristocratic pretensions. My reflections are of neither but stem from the very gallantry of self-made persons. My family blood, background and connections ensured no advantage in life. From a time my father passed on I have had the burden of family and personal ambition. I have worked hard, sweated blood to simply survive. Yet the more and more I continue on the journey the more I am proud of being a self-made man. In my travels I have met men who are recommended by family and political connections, men from low abode who have made it their ambition to marry into rich families or politically powerful families.

Or those already given the advantage of blood and so only seek connections with those of similar breed. Such is the playground of life, which my disposition and pride could never fathom. I had to fight purely on merit. But from this comes a self awareness of one’s personality and creed. I owe no allegiance to anyone but only to my whims and desires. Invariably, over time I have become acutely aware of those endeavours that accentuate and perpetuate who I am as an individual. Bespoke is naturally the only dressing endeavour that enhances individuality. A man is just as the wolf in sheep’s shire

While many have a heritage to keep and others a heritage to perpetuate, I consider myself the first to build a heritage. It becomes important to furnish my life with those distinct attributes future generations can find as worthy heritage reserves of knowledge, talent, will power and above all aesthetics. I imagine and model myself as the original Medici family and propagating the foundation on which the renaissance period would be etched, as the “ dazzling light to future generations of  what man can be and do”. Fashion is one aesthetic pursuit and bespoke a necessity. My collection of suits and shirts tailored as presenting a peculiar heritage shall be handed down to all my descendants as symbols of personality and art. Bespoke tailoring is the haute couture of the self-made man.

Bespoke gives me the benefit of total control over the fabric used, the colour of the suit, its structure/build and any peculiar subtle fine detail I may require.  It gives me unlimited access to a tailor whose scissors is the chisel modelling stone into sculpture. Many instances a man finds himself clothed in whatever the ignominy of high street and high labels have deemed to be in season. Everything is mass produced and manipulated to pander to the crowds. For a moment picture those hideous high collar shirts (with three collar buttons) our young men are prone to wearing these days.  If there is a revolution that we should take seriously in these times its the burning of such shirts-I am rather tolerable of Mubarak than these shirts.  . Bespoke on the other hand is truly an extension on one’s skin, an appendage to one’s personality.  It is an expression of gallantry and charm of the wearer and not borrowed adroitness.

I have invested all my savings into a business; invariably I do not have extra dollars for my fashion pursuits especially for visiting a bespoke tailor. I face the inordinate trivia of either not shopping at all, or joining the off the rack band wagon. Indeed I have given up shopping. For a while now I have not gone shopping. It makes sense to me, why should I shop and get instant gratification for something that is not real at all that builds no heritage for my house. So I have given up bespoke for the meantime while I sort out my finances.

The Dream called Franschhoek

The best of the world is usually in us or in Franschhoek. Those that follow my writings would perhaps be at pains to know where in history this quote is from. No spatial reference to history will yield except that I came up with this saying after spending and taking a double take of Franschhoek, enjoying the heightened experience of my palate.  Indeed with no palate, the essentials of Franschhoek are lost on an individual.

Asked once what my occupation was I lied to impress; “GQ’s international stylist at large but mostly a gentleman of leisure” I said with such aplomb. You see she looked like she had just sprung out of a page from Vogue and her tan in the middle of winter  betrayed  habitual summering  in those Caribbean islands that are very hard to pronounce. She looked at me, the least surprised and I reckoned a “wow” would suffice. None sufficed but a snigger and retort- I “work for GQ you know” and I am coming from Franschhoek. She walked away, with a triumphant stride, but Franschhoek stuck with me!

My board was a quaint Cape Dutch cottage on a wine estate within the vicinity of the village. If you are interested in the history of Franschhoek, 1694 this dream was “founded”. The story goes the Dutch sailors given to highly intoxicating drink, merriment and the love thereof where somehow unable to preserve correctly the wine they imported from France. The story continues either they finished all the barrels before the cape of Goodhope or whatever was left was badly preserved. The innovative answer came to bare- invite the Frenchmen from the vineyards of Bordeaux and Champagne and in Franschhoek (French corner) they would make the finest and best wines and the ready market of thirsty Dutchmen would pay for their keep. The Frenchmen got more sun on skin and the Dutchmen more wine in their blood. 

This anecdote was furnished to a rather enthusiastic wine tasting crowd by a rather excitable, funny (in an off the cuff sort of way) and slightly inebriated fellow at Haute Cabrier- the makers of the finest South African champagne and wines. The tour was grand, and after tasting the Magnus opus Ratafia my head was dizzy, I was slightly giddy- and noted the dangers of a desert wine before lunch!

How does one capture the total magic and setting in Franschhoek, a little village town surrounded by vineyards owned by the best gentlemen of South Africa. Best, purely on account of having the good sense of buying real estate in this space where anything not Cape Dutch, white, spacious, vintage, is decidedly frowned upon. It must be a relief knowing your neighbour is not only Rothschild & Rupert (or similar iconic name) but because of the municipal bylaws, MTV grotesque architecture is forbidden. The Law, ladies and gentleman is peculiarly stylish in these parts.

The best afternoon was spent in cheese tasting at Fair view. It is a 30 minutes drive from the village and there I had my dalliance with the finest cheese in the world. Reminds one of the teenage dalliance with the best looking girl from the best girls school. A whisper and brush of the lips was enough to get me excited then, now it’s cheese and yogourt!

Feeling romantic,  Dieu Donné, the restaurant that overlooks Franschhoek was our rendezvous. She had her hair pulled back wearing a pencil slim cherry skirt with a white body hugging vest- her black heels matching her belt. Conversation flowed, but I could not get over her body in the cherry skirt. We viewed the village lights in awe and wonder and speculated if ever a place on earth was as close to perfection as that moment. And if ever possible two beings can be in that perfect moment. It was a perfect picture!

"Being Black"

No one subject has been the epic of conversation than the idea of what it is to be black. February, the black history month is littered with praises to this idea called black. Beyonce, inspired by Fela Kuti has added to the dogma, in her own way. Whatever the disagreements in the conversations, the essentials of being black are topical. There is of course the stereo type of what black is, flip the coin and one finds what black is not.

I have toyed with the idea of blackness and tried to understand wherefrom this idea stems and where to this idea takes me. This essay, I warn the reader is rather biased. I make no apologies for this. However, I do hope the reader burdened with my thoughts would be kind enough to be a passenger to my discourse and enjoy more the journey in conversation with a stranger than where we end up.

I was born Black- itself a pejorative term I was branded with on my birth bed. Of course as a baby I was branded in more ways than this. I was given a shona, Christian name to go with my shona ancestral surname. The contradictions were blurred, tradition interred. I was given a totem, tribe and village- my birth rights were confirmed by a piece of paper. Thus the nurse- in mandatory duty inscribed on my hospital tag-black. She had, I am sure performed this task many times. The joy of a new born baby was not on her face but rather on my mother. Hers was a mechanical performance. As far as she was concerned another black male had been born. She performed the national and worldly duty of recording on a card that another black male had been born.

This journey, from my first breath to the many decades I have been on this earth has been the same. The most identifiable feature about me is my blackness- something I never chose, I was simply branded. There is a difference between a feature and a trait (embodied in character). The feature is perhaps what the nurse saw on my birth bed- if one were to ask her she would say she saw a black baby.  And the world does this so often, I do it as well. I see certain features and I immediately infer whether black or any other race- conjecture is little.  Second to this are particular traits- the usual “oh that’s so black” leaves one with an inference that indeed there are traits and qualities that are black. It is the feature meshed with trait that the world goes by in composing blackness.

I cannot with certainty question this insight. Perhaps it is what it is. The kinky hair, chocolate skin, thick lips and broad behinds are a matter of fact. The laugh, expressions, language and customs are identifiable traits. It is what it is. But to end there is a failure of the mind and failure to interrogate the essence of blackness.

This essay is essentially an interrogation of “being black” rather than the features and traits that stereo type blackness. By identifying what “being black” means I hope to knock on the door of black consciousness and walk the annals of an idea cradled in the heart of Africa.

The movie gladiator has a scene I have often pondered on. The emperor Marcus Aurelius sits and whispers to his favoured general  Maximus and talks of taking back the Roman Empire  to the senate and making it a republic again. In melancholy he questions the war victories and the military show of might- desperately trying to find meaning. Maximus chastises the Emperor, and beguiles the virtues and might of Rome- the city state the soldiers have defended. The emperor asks Maximus how he can defend and uphold the virtues of a city he has never been to- for an idea he was never part of in creating. Maximus, a Spaniard (i.e not even Roman) in defending the idea called “Rome”, a civilisation that was like no other, is illustrative of the idea of being.

That is the idea of of “being Roman” was not particular of certain features or traits. The Emperor representative of all that was glorious and might about Romans, blood as pure as ice was far away from “being Roman”.   

The paradox continues later on in the movie when the son as new emperor wants to mate with his sister to produce a pure heir to the throne (this was the culture especially in Egypt where a pharaoh had to be of pure blood to sanctify his rulership) .It took a foreigner, a person of vile slave background, impure blood to be the general and symbol of “Being Roman”.

Heidegger in his study of Being-called it an ontological expedition of Dasein. To simplify- what does it mean to exist? What is the very nature of existence?  Existence is that which is alive beyond the physical.

“Being black” entails an idea that is alive beyond the physical features and traits. It must invoke the idea of blackness beyond what the nurse saw, what people see. The debates that have ensued have dwelled and laboured hard in arguing a feature is what is black. They have argued, black was never defined by black people themselves but rather by white people. The white race in defining what is black ensured exclusivity to what is white. Thus, the argument goes, a white man in Africa cannot term or identify himself with Black Africa because he has not the requisite features or traits. His features are European. Only pure bloods, only pure bloods are allowed.  That is foolish.

It is foolish to tribalise consciousness. I as an individual can never characterise my very consciousness. What is alive in an individual is not the physical manifestation of one's being. What is alive is rudderless, matterless, featureless, dimensionless conscience . It is quite so with nation hoods and state hoods. A people can never be bordered and defined by the physical planes of a place. 

We have seen this with the Diaspora, sons and daughters of three or four generations that have never been to Africa but identify with the idea of being black. It is very much so that the kindred spirit of being black is alive.

The essence of blackness is hard to fathom and I would like to believe further interrogation is in order. But I know enough to know what is not Black. Meat and bone coloured with a certain shade of black can never be the essence blackness.  “Being black” is not an absolute phenomenon, it cannot be what we see. It is an idea that very well encapsulates our existence as black people. One should not be easily fooled by the expedience of identifying blackness with affirmative action, Black Economic Empowerment, returning land to the "true" owners. This is spatial, shallow and it too shall pass. To retain credibility supporters and beneficiaries of such programmes have to tout and define blackness as an absolute manifestation. However much booty they may acquire their folly should never be ours.

On the shortness of life: Seneca

"It is not that we have a short space of time, but that we waste much of it. Life is long enough, and it has been given in sufficiently generous measure to allow the accomplishment of the very greatest things if the whole of it is well invested. But when it is squandered in luxury and carelessness, when it is devoted to no good end, forced at last by the ultimate necessity we perceive that it has passed away before we were aware that it was passing. So it is—the life we receive is not short, but we make it so, nor do we have any lack of it, but are wasteful of it. Just as great and princely wealth is scattered in a moment when it comes into the hands of a bad owner, while wealth however limited, if it is entrusted to a good guardian, increases by use, so our life is amply long for him who orders it properly. 


Why do we complain of Nature? She has shown herself kindly; life, if you know how to use it, is long. But one man is possessed by an avarice that is insatiable, another by a toilsome devotion to tasks that are useless; one man is besotted with wine, another is paralyzed by sloth; one man is exhausted by an ambition that always hangs upon the decision of others, another, driven on by the greed of the trader, is led over all lands and all seas by the hope of gain; some are tormented by a passion for war and are always either bent upon inflicting danger upon others or concerned about their own; some there are who are worn out by voluntary servitude in a thankless attendance upon the great; many are kept busy either in the pursuit of other men's fortune or in complaining of their own; many, following no fixed aim, shifting and inconstant and dissatisfied, are plunged by their fickleness into plans that are ever new; some have no fixed principle by which to direct their course, but Fate takes them unawares while they loll and yawn—so surely does it happen that I cannot doubt the truth of that utterance which the greatest of poets delivered with all the seeming of an oracle: "The part of life we really live is small." For all the rest of existence is not life, but merely time. 

 In short, run through the list of all these men from the lowest to the highest—this man desires an advocate, this one answers the call, that one is on trial, that one defends him, that one gives sentence; no one asserts his claim to himself, everyone is wasted for the sake of another.

Ask about the men whose names are known by heart, and you will see that these are the marks that distinguish them: A cultivates B and B cultivates C; no one is his own master.

And then certain men show the most senseless indignation—they complain of the insolence of their superiors, because they were too busy to see them when they wished an audience! But can anyone have the hardihood to complain of the pride of another when he himself has no time to attend to himself? After all, no matter who you are, the great man does sometimes look toward you even if his face is insolent, he does sometimes condescend to listen to your words, he permits you to appear at his side; but you never deign to look upon yourself, to give ear to yourself. There is no reason, therefore, to count anyone in debt for such services, seeing that, when you performed them, you had no wish for another's company, but could not endure your own."

In defense of Kanye West

A man who dresses this good must be forgiven seven fold times. But wait a minute the good book says forgiveness should be a running stream no matter what for any man, in no particular preference. Yet the world has chosen to persecute the greatest imaginative mind in the music industry at the moment. Admittedly, there is something off about Kanye west,  clearly Kanye is no breath of fresh air- but he certainly is a Superstar!

Kanye West is arrogant- the mob shouts in chorus, persecute him and ban his music from the airwaves. He is the wrong role model cries the parent – in vain trying to keep his/her kids from listening to Kanye. Is this not an indictment that something is badly wrong with our society, quick to persecute a man for simply not having the inclination to pretext his askance with please and may i? Kanye has no manners, point taken. Kanye is a manic MC whose inspired words and rhyme have taken music to another level-This point should be taken.

Unwrapping Mr West’s album felt like walking into Picasso’s Museum in Barcelona, one is simply entering a zone. A zone where you return never the same, the grandeur of the tour is a glimpse of works of art of a genius!. A twisted genius nonetheless. Picasso introduced the world to blue and pink emotions, Kanye introduces the world to pink fantasies of a  Socrates kind,( more chocolatie) in a Murciélago.

In recent times I have had my own existential crisis. I have tried to understand my life and what life really means. I had my sad moment, until I read L. Mises and the words “the fully satisfied individual is purposeless, he does not act, he has no incentive to think, he spends his days in leisurely enjoyment of life. Whether such a fairy-like existence is desirable may be left undecided. It is certain that living men can never attain such a state of perfection and equilibrium.” Kanye made me understand that life is a constant flux .Here is one individual who is never satisfied, who has made the world of music better off!

Vumba

It was Coco Chanel who made us understand the necessity of luxury in our lives. Asked what the opposite of luxury was she quipped; “vulgarity”. In today’s world there is no shortage of vulgarism – if in doubt hop on a plane and land somewhere between Dubai and Abu Dhabi, better yet Las Vegas. Turn on the TV and watch MTV cribs. If you manage to not vomit in disgust, then perhaps your stomach is sterner than mine! Standing at the edifice of the Vumba mountains I could not help but reflect on Coco Chanel’s insight- tucked away in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe at the border with Mozambique the spectre of Coco’s Luxury descended.

Yet it is not Chanel who impresses a philosophy in these parts. Rather it is the Roman Emperor Hadrian, the last of the classical era who having lived 400 years after the classical glory in Athens went about to recreate and model everything Athenian. Recreating the ebb and flow, the art and triumphs of a by-gone time as a musing to the Roman generation of his time. In essence he captured the very best Kodak moment of Athens and its satellites.

Vumba, spanning a 24 km road of sharp curves around misty mountains and steep descents, captures the very best of the Victorian England and its satellite the Scottish highlands. It is important to step into this mist of Luxury with history in mind.  The British colonial settlers at the time believed in Vumba they had found a little England,  and so went about to pick their favourite grand pieces in Victorian times, recreating the cobble stone roads, architecture , castles, gardens and lakes in the most picturesque mountains and valleys.

The best in Luxury of the Vumba culminates at Leopard Rock, named after the Leopards abundant in the mountains. Perhaps it is important the reader understands why I write about the Vumba and Leopard rock in particular. Zimbabwe, after the lost decade has some of the most appalling and overpriced hotels in Africa. Most with the exception of a few tell epic stories of former glory and the hospitality is disparate and poorly.  Leopard rock, recently refurbished is munificent with grandeur of the highest notch and gives one reason to still believe in the Zimbabwean hospitality.

It was refreshing, being welcomed by dapper members of staff in navy blue blazers, white shirts, striped ties and chino trousers that were quite adept in handling the trivial and peculiar requests of a gentleman at leisure. I was suitably impressed with the home-made vanilla ice cream that comes in generous proportions and served on the terrace overlooking the wondrous garden. Every detail in the hotel has been done by a deliberate hand and an eye with a penchant for timeless splendour.

Horse riding in the game reserve, betrays visions of the English gentleman hunting hounds in Winchester- with the backdrop of whispering spring waters racing down a gorge. The gardens defeat in meticulousness all that is beautiful in Bath and rival Chateau Versailles. Decadence of mind and body is best served at the spa, after which a leisurely walk in the gardens inspires romantic prose even in a brute.

On occasion, I sampled the best of Vumba. Driving leisurely I meandered the sharp bends, reminiscent of the South of France, up the mountain right up to Mountain Heights- at the apex the breath taking view was an awesome reminder of the creative hand that moulded earth. A walk in the botanical gardens is like stepping in into the very best of Hardy’s distinct prose. Everything dressed in perfection.

 Further down my inquisitive pursuits landed me at Eden Lodge. It is at Eden Lodge, I found the staff very helpful and again bending backwards in entertaining my little nuisances. Upon discovering a quaint spot in the gardens overlooking the gorge, I was obliged with a table and chairs and devoured my generous portion of  t-bone steak with rice. Priced at $10, this was a dead giveaway, considering the calf whose fine cut of tender steak I made my lunch, was slaughtered on the Estate that very day. I was tempted to simply take a nap after such a meal right there in the garden, without further hesitation I made a pillow out of my jacket and snored the afternoon away.  Early evening saw me peddling a canoe at the Eden dam, a pleasant way of sipping sun downers.

Again another show stopper, is the Inn on the Vumba that serves a five course dinner. The Inn is not in the best of conditions, a little TLC would help, but the dining room is such a warm and cosy hideout and the food divine. Serving  aLá carte menu, I chose the five course menu starting with chicken livers with bread fingers, and the appetiser homemade maestro soup. Trout, captured that afternoon, was my main course served with jacket potato and delicious vegetables. I skipped desert and settled for cheese and biscuits served with tea.

For Afternoon High tea then Tony’s coffee shop is the idyllic rendezvous. Its confectionary, I was to be made aware of is world renowned. I consider myself a connoisseur of confectionary of sort and I have numerous tooth fillings  to show for it- and this has to be the BEST cake and coffee shop  in the whole wide world. Total decadence, scouts honour! This is the sort of place that needs no Homer myth to populate its sweetness. Only your test buds will attest.

I realise I could go on, and tell of every tale of the Vumba, but the locals will attest zviri nani kuzvionera pamhuno sefodya- its better you see it for yourself.  

Apologies for this post not appearing earlier. 

The Renaissance man

In recent years men have been described by many adjectives in light of the recent advancement in our human civilisation and socialisation of the 21^st century. As the walkman was replaced with the ipod, the yesterday man and his mantle have been replaced by today’s man with his mettle.  The iconoclast verve epitomised by Beckham is the metro-sexual, diametrically in opposite to Claude van Dame, the brute of the 90’s. 

While the debate ensues on the world’s idealistic creature to amplify manhood- an amble crisis of sort has landed on male shores. Maleness crisis is symptomatic of how masculinity has become emasculated, blurred and the prospects bleak. Similar, to the 14^th century nonchalance that persuaded individuals to seek inalienable truths of the world, rather than accept the then collective mantra. The answer then, as is now, is the Renaissance man.

A renaissance is a renewal; then in 14^th century Italy it was a renewal of Athenian classical antiquity virtues and ideals. The Renaissance man was simply one who had mastery of skills or knowledge from a wide variety of fields. It was a belief that man possessed all the essence and determination to excel in all exertions mental, physical and aesthetic.

Samuel Johnson says “A man may shoot the man who invades his character, as he may shoot him who attempts to break into his house.”And so it was a man’s strength of character, determination and ability that saw him rise above the parapet of societal standards and distinguish himself amongst his peers.  Often the renaissance period is called the humanistic period, a notion in art, science, travel and idea that firmly puts the individual as the nexus of worldly experience.

The Athenian man was first a seeker and lover of wisdom. The word philo (love for) sophy (wisdom), thus he engaged himself wholly in the quest to seek the truth about the world and exercised logic in his daily life. He was a philosopher! The Renaissance man in 14^th century Italy begun to study Athenian Philosophy and Homeric texts. From these he gained the substance and form of what life is and gained strength of character to discern foolishness.

And so I am confused when the current world lauds the metro-sexual, I ask myself if at all he is a lover of wisdom –a Philosopher beyond just reading, writing and counting?  The blame is squarely on Hollywood and our educational system that disguises knowledge with robes of exams. The man who succeeds is one who has mastered the ideals of passing an exam and not necessarily the man willing to die for the truth that he believes.

Another ideal of the Renaissance man was the Warrior ideal. In classical times, a man was a warrior, who defended his family, country and what he believed in. The Roman Empire grew on the basis of these men that would farm their lands during the growing season and fight to increase the empire during the winter. The most revered men were conquerors, men who had exercised ability, skill and determination in the world and not in some film in Hollywood.  Valour and a heroic spirit walked side by side with him. Today engrossed in repetitive 9 to 5, shuffling paper, nothing in a man’s spirit calls for his initiation and bravery. He risks nothing, and gains nothing!

Theodore Roosevelt has imparted wisdom and importance of being the man ready for battle; man in the Arena

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

 Recently in a bus I overheard a group of girls talking, one claimed she only dated Bankers and the other claimed she had been cursed with only Accountants. On reflecting and unveiling this conversation I was sad for a moment and sadder for the men mentioned. But such is the world we live in where a man is qualified purely by his vocation, never mind that the world has over a million doctors- he is just defined as a doctor.

Asked who am i? My vocation immediately conjures my personality, success and mindset.  My individualistic personality now hardly recommends me or like in most cases my vocation has become the straight jacket in which my individual personality has merely fizzled into. This contrast heavily with the Renaissance man ;perhaps the quintessential renaissance man of this period was Leonardo Da Vinci, who was an artist, an engineer, an anatomist and also pursued many other disciplines with great success and aplomb.

 Finally the classical definition of manhood was exemplified by conduct. Decorum was a virtue taught in every man, and each man would in turn become a poet in his life and create the flair -avoir un don pour- to personalise his deeds. Today’s language this is known as swagger, for the Renaissance man it is panache. Valour and Wisdom led the man to battle, but his conduct in battle was equally important. It was not just enough to win a battle, it was important to win with honour.