Tuesday evening’s debate was a battle between the prosecutor and the felon, between the unexpected Democratic nominee and the presidential campaign veteran. Between the pussy-bow blouse and the big red tie.
Column by Rachel Tashjian
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And that uniform, for both candidates, includes an ornamental piece of fabric that hangs around their necks.
The split-screen format that ABC News used emphasized this visual synchronicity, showing both candidates simultaneously throughout the debate while occasionally cutting to moderators Linsey Davis (also in a sharp-shouldered suit) and David Muir.
There was Trump’s big red tie, an accessory nearly as famous as his red “Make America Great Again” hat. But if the hat is an aggressive smirk, the tie is like a silk hammer: glowing, long and, let’s face it, an unmistakably phallic symbol. Trump reportedly wears it longer to lengthen and thereby thin his frame, but the expanse of costly fabric is a continual reminder of his particular brand of fancy-brash machismo. Most male politicians still wear ties, but they like to appear without one from time to time to show that they’re a man of the people. Maybe your top button is undone, maybe you take your jacket off and roll up your sleeves.
Trump has rarely played these sartorial games. He wears the tie. And wears it. And wears it. He’s a man of consistent (if meandering) messages, punctuated with his odd repeated obsessions — Hannibal Lecter, crowd sizes and immigrants eating pets — and his tie is almost always there to drive home the point.
Meanwhile, a blouse with a tie at the neck has become Harris’s signature. Usually, she wears a more ornate style called a pussy-bow blouse — a French invention (but of course) that gathers fabric into a bow. The pussy bow, or lavallière, first found popularity among artists and intellectuals but evolved into essential corporate attire for the “dress for success” generation, as American women began entering the workforce in the mid-20th century. A feminized rejoinder to the necktie, it both highlights and negates its power: taking that stark, straightforward piece of fabric and gussying it up into a cute little bow.
This is not Trump’s first tussle with the blouse. In 2016, less than 48 hours after a tape was released in which Trump was overheard saying he could “grab [women] by the p---y,” his wife, Melania Trump, wore a hot pink pussy-bow blouse to his debate against Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton. The internet went wild, setting off an era of conspiracy-theory-fueled fashion theorizing that continues to this day. (Did Harris wear her tan suit at the Democratic National Convention to troll Republicans who were outraged by President Barack Obama’s beige get-up in 2014? Did Melania wear a jacket printed with “I really don’t care, do u?” in 2018 to troll the media, her husband, Ivanka Trump, us, herself?)
On Tuesday, Harris went for more subdued neckwear: a softly pleated white blouse loosely cinched into a single knot. Still, the shirting message was clear: This is her look. Her signature. She wants us to visualize her and see that fabric at the neck. And, given the history of the lavallière as a part of the second-wave feminist wardrobe, and its controversial role in 2016’s race, we can also safely say that this is one of the few moments when she has referenced her identity, something she has been almost hesitant to mention. Perhaps she believes it is better to let the picture, or the garment, conjure the story of her background instead of making it central to her candidacy through words. For someone who appears to be wearing mundane clothes, she is actually using them deftly to her advantage.
Trump and Harris aren’t only speaking with their ties. Their suits tell volumes, too. Trump’s, usually by the Italian tailoring house Brioni, are in luxe wools that mark his allegiance to the cult of expensive European fashion, where details such as an unusual lining or finely stitched buttonholes are little reminders that you have disposable cash to spend on tiny tricks for your eyes only.
Harris, who wears pantsuits from the palette of labels common among white-collar career women, such as Michael Kors and Chloé, sometimes wears a bright color but tends to stick to more sober tones, looking presentable without ever looking particularly special. (For a female candidate and a woman of color, subject to more scrutiny than anyone else, this is an achievement.)
We still wring our hands over the propriety of discussing a politician’s clothing, even though both candidates have made it clear that they (and their teams) are putting quite a bit of thought into what they’re wearing. This is a campaign waged in TikTok memes, video podcast appearances, rally optics, merch — and clothes. Appearances may have never been so revealing.
