Saturday commute lxv: toujours l'audace

Does one have the credibility

to say, that although one has

been respectful of Jil Sander

(now under such fateful tran-

sition at the top), one hasn't

gone haywire for the house, to

the extent of enjoying stepping

on an entry as pretty as the 

reflection, preceding, on East-

man Kodak (also in turmoil, top

to bottom)?

It was, I think, the cashmere

cuirass in black which threw one

off guard, and brought forward 

this obvious Sunday brunch tar- 

tan in leatherite ornamentation

as an urgent interpretation of a

Saturday commute. A natural for

the Nob Hill cable car on a windy

ride up from Union Square, or a 

mid-day round at Cypress Point,

the ensemble comes smashingly in-

to its own, need I say, for drinx

on the Sausalito ferry. 


I used to ride that noble vessel
to work for a couple of years,
with a chum in Mill Valley who was
creative director for a massive ad
agency on the Embarcadero. These
were the years of one's red Alfa,
too; and it's hard to know which
could have done greater justice
to this Sanderism, the genius of
the Milk Advisory Board or the
quixotic cabriolet at speed. I'd
gladly stake us all to a Low-
land malt on ice, to find out.














Clément Chabernaud