Why Are We So Obsessed With Female Politician’s Clothes?
The day after the first presidential debate, I got a text from my brother asking for some expert advice on Hillary’s red pantsuit. Apparently it was too red. I jumped at the bait and said that nobody would have said that about Trump’s suit, and that female politicians aren’t fashion plates. But then I realized I was wrong. Female politicians, for better or for worse, do serve as a form of fashion plates, and their color choices do matter.
The Google search for “Hillary Clinton pantsuit color” yields 4,240,000 results (thankfully compared to 47,500,000 hits for “Hillary Clinton policies”). The first page of images is mostly various dimensions of a famous photoshop of Clinton rocking every shade of Roy G. BIV throughout 35 years of pantsuit-clad public service. But beyond Clinton, there’s Margaret Thatcher, Theresa May (who also has a rainbow-themed slideshow on The Guardian), and Aung Sang Suu Kyi who have all had a slew of articles written on their clothing choices. After Wednesday’s debate, Hillary’s choice to wear a white pantsuit, the color of suffragettes, did not go unnoticed.
It’s Washington’s equivalent of Elle Woods sitting in her first Harvard law school class. But instead of being a L’Oreal Bottle Blonde in a sea of future salt-and-pepper types, it’s a crimson, turquoise or lavender suit in the middle of of a sea of Brooks Brothers. It’s different, it’s bold, it says “I am here.” The job is the same, but the effect is different.
In the ‘80s, more and more women were entering the workforce. To current chagrin, bold shoulder pads skyrocketed so the new hires could visually assimilate with their male counterparts. My own mother went to her first job on Capitol Hill in a suit way too broad shouldered for her 5’2 frame. They couldn’t hide their femininity, but they could mask it with shoulder pads-- I hear they also provide extra padding for glass ceiling smashing.
Outside of aesthetics, there’s a protocol component. The visual is imbued with both inferred domestic meaning and foreign political nods. Clinton wore white to accept the Democratic nomination and during Wednesday’s debate. Former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher donned a red suit for her visits to China in the ‘80s. First Lady Michelle Obama (not technically a politician, but certainly an emblem of US diplomacy) wore a blue dress by Japanese-born, United States-educated designer Tadashi Shoji for the Japan state dinner. When Obama wore a dress from British design house Alexander McQueen to meet with former Chinese president Hu Jintao, she was met with criticism. It was what Robin Givhan of the Washington Post called “A psychic blow.” It’s a form of respect, encoded with political meaning, and a representation and acknowledgement of a country’s values, artists and norms.
The flip-side of this feminine emblem employed by so many politicians is the argument that men don’t get charged with the same sartorial burden when running for elected office or sitting in a boardroom. This is true. One need only look at the current election to see that the burden is vastly unequal for male and female politicians. But it’s partly representative of the gendered limitations for men when it comes to fashion rather than the burden for women. Women are given a freedom to wear a color whereas men have a closely monitored palette of navy, black and grey. Paul Ryan showing up in head-to-toe cobalt or cherry would have surely raised more eyebrows from my brother than Hillary’s suit did. Your move, Mr. Speaker.