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I hate to interrupt such a thoughtful discussion with yet another micro-dissection of what was in Michelle Obama's Grand Tour steamer trunk but I couldn't resist this item from the Times of London pointing out her false eyelashes. And not just any false eyelashes, but "full-on, all-out diva lashes, the kind you normally find on D-list celebrities or in drag-act dressing rooms." The Times says it was part of her plan to seduce Europe (easier to bat your eyelashes at a whole continent when they're industrially made!) but I wonder whether the thing Mrs. Obama is flirting with is the line between icon and camp. Of late, she's seen herself represented in wax at Madame Tussaud's and Barbie-fied on the cover of New York. Someone is ghostwriting a Tumblr as her arms. I might amp up my makeup routine, too. But is she purposely feeding our frenzy by becoming an ever-more bombastic version of herself, intoxicated just as much as we are by the whirlwind pace of her style canonization? Or are the eyelashes just a tacit, down-to-earth admission that, hey, we all need a little help in front of the camera? (A sharp contrast, I might add, to Carla Bruni, who's undermined every woman in the world other than Carla Bruni by saying makeup makes us all look bad after age 25).
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Hanna, I agree in part with your assessment of the nation’s general judginess when it comes to feminism and FLOTUS fashion—but think it’s totally valid to critique Michelle Obama’s choice of attire when it comes to planting what’s essentially a victory garden for the nation.
In black boots, a black sweater, and the obligatorily cinched waist, Obama looked great, but absolutely unfit for the task at hand. I know plenty of women (myself included) who would rather wear a cute outfit than dungarees, especially when there are cameras around—but the posh outfit seemed only to underscore the posh surroundings and the sense that this vegetable garden was more photo op than a testament to the FLOTUS’ farming fetish.
Herbs from this garden will delicately garnish the plates of dignitaries and assorted diners at the White House. Maybe some of that lettuce will make it into the first daughters’ sandwiches. But this ain’t subsistence farming (see this intriguing NYT video essay for what a real victory garden looks like). So was the outfit a) a calculated middle finger to mores that expect a woman to have a green thumb? b) A naked push to look fab for history? Or, perhaps c) a glimpse of Obama as a model in her own public service ad campaign—dressed to the nines, as we expect mannequins to be—but selling a product she would never use? Maybe all three, but c) is anything but revolutionary.
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From today's New York Times:
[Gourmet editor Ruth] Reichl would like the White House kitchen to issue regular news releases that describe what the first couple and their daughters are eating. (Then parents across the country could tell their children, "You know, Malia and Sasha were eating salad yesterday ...")
Excellent idea! What 10-year old would not benefit from national news releases detailing the number of calories she consumes daily? Why not release updates on Malia's BMI as well? Then the girls would know that they are eating salad for America.
The Times' article is on Michelle Obama's "Healthful Eating" agenda. I cringe every time Obama slips into domestic goddess mode, and this is no exception. I do not want the first lady's agenda to have anything to do with kitchens or children's libraries. I do not want her to submit recipes to cookbooks or talk about her efforts to make her husband pick up his dirty socks. I realize that Obama is trying to navigate an incredibly backward set of norms (Washington is a conservative place no matter who is in power), and that David Brooks will find her terrifying no matter what she does, but I wish she would resist the impulse to become our Nurturer-in-Chief. (When Hillary Clinton said that she would not "stay home and bake cookies," it was not the caloric content of cookies that concerned her.) The idea of Michelle doing talk shows about how to prepare kid-friendly broccoli dishes while her husband is discussing nuclear armament with Russia makes me want to do a lot of things, and planting a sustainable vegetable garden is not among them.
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We're not the only ones obsessed with Michelle Obama's guns. Here's this week's New Yorker cover via Jezebel. Her arms are conspicuously covered in every frock! Is The New Yorker scared of Michelle's bold sensuality, just like David Brooks is?
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I’m with you, Dayo. I cannot quite believe we are entering the third week of sleevegate, wherein America cannot find anything more interesting to pick over than Michelle Obama’s right to bare arms. You’re correct that Maureen Dowd’s fainthearted “defense” this weekend was hard to follow. She sets up David Brooks as the Neanderthal who finds the first lady’s display “ostentatious” but then half piles-on, smirking that “the only bracing symbol of American strength right now is the image of Michelle Obama’s sculpted biceps. Her husband urges bold action, but it is Michelle who looks as though she could easily wind up and punch out Rush Limbaugh.”
I keep wondering if her critics have a problem with Michelle Obama because she's too sexy, as they say, or because she has pretty much flushed the glamour rulebook down the toilet. Unlike past political glamazons, from Nancy Reagan to Sarah Palin, Mrs. Obama doesn’t meet a fashion rule she hasn’t busted. It’s not just that she shows her arms instead of her gams (a la Palin) or the high-lowbrow fashion mix (shocking!) even Dowd grudgiungly admires. It’s more that she just doesn’t seem to care what any of us think of her, including America’s Next Top Model, David Brooks. And that must be driving Washington mental.
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What to make of Maureen Dowd’s column on the first lady in the New York Times today, which—-from its fem-apologetic opening sentence to its “give ‘em hell, Michelle” conclusion—seems be of two minds about the role of women in public life. The narrative revolves around the series of sleeveless dresses that Michelle Obama has been sporting in the dead of winter. I have my thoughts on that, but here’s the key quote:
Washington is a place where people have always been suspect of style and overt sexuality. Too much preening signals that you’re not up late studying cap-and-trade agreements.
I think that’s pretty accurate, despite Dowd’s typically scattershot treatment. But later, from the mouth of Dowd’s Times bedfellow David Brooks:
She should put away Thunder and Lightning. ... Washington is sensually avoidant. The wonks here like brains. She should not be known for her physical presence, for one body part.
Part of why I like Washington so much is its nonrunway atmosphere, the slightly schlubby khaki culture that puts a premium on policy rather than couture aesthetics. Yet its conservatism does translate to gender roles, especially in fields as dominated by men as politics and journalism, or—where I sit—political journalism. Brooks, et al., provide the anti-peer pressure, the incentive to flatten hipness or personality, or treat each as the opposite of smarts. In D.C., just wearing a colored blazer makes one feel a bit flamboyant. (A group of motivated, high-octane girlfriends and I just finished debating my recent moratorium on purchasing clothing that is “not appropriate for work”—more on that later.)
In the end, Dowd counseled Obama to be herself, assuming that her fluency on the intricacies of climate legislation (a facile proxy for things wonkish) will make its own impression, and noting, “the only bracing symbol of American strength right now is the image of Michelle Obama’s sculpted biceps." This was comforting news to one who feared that the hardnosed lawyer and hospital executive was being forgotten in all of the risotto-scooping and playhouse constructing (by choice!) that has peppered her schedule of late.
But it still irks me that Brooks seems more cowed by the FLOTUS’ guns than he has any right to be. Who’s dividing whom into constituent parts? Oh, right—"Washington."... Obama’s toned arms look great, but are probably the most androgynous, least sexual part of a woman’s anatomy. So his complaint is not really about inappropriate sexuality; there’s nothing shameful (in America’s puritan sense) about being known for that “one body part.” His beef is in fact about power, of the incredibly banal corporeal variety. So Obama's "physical presence" threatens him. Yawn—we covered this with the Williams sisters. As euphemistic as he attempts to come across, I think Brooks is just being sexist. He should be more afraid of her pillow talk on Medicaid. Thoughts?
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Just wanted to flag this great piece in The Root about Venus and Serena Williams—not simply because my sister and I played competitive tennis as youngsters, and were constantly being compared to the Compton-born phenoms—but because author Jewel Edwards is preaching hard truths about standards of beauty when it comes to athletics. Extra points to this piece for subtlety; it took me a while to realize that Edwards is male! His awesome point:
Black female athletes, on the other hand, are put in the unique position where developing their bodies makes them the object of spectacle. For female athletes, the perennial insult is, "You look like a man." As a result, any girl—black or white—involved in sports has to make choices that a boy never has to make.
That’s a very important insight; and the tough calls faced by female athletes extend not just to physical appearance but to lifestyle choices, such as when to have a baby, get hitched, or embark upon puberty.
Samantha brought up Michelle Obama’s guns getting lots of attention on Tuesday evening. (I thought that going sleeveless in February was a bit gauche—but that’s another tale.) Obama looks great, but that kind of positive reinforcement is a stark counterpoint to the ogling and snark that attends the biceps of the decorated Williams sisters. It’s clearly hurtful:
Serena, when asked about her body yet again, said, "Just because I have large bosoms, and I have a big ass [laughter], I swear, my waist is 30 inches, 29 to 30 inches, it’s really small! I have the smallest waist, but just because I have those two assets, it looks like I’m not fit."
Imagine that! You are the most dominant person in your sport in the world, but you consistently have to defend having your curves. Listening to commentators persistently speculate and scrutinize Serena about her weight and fitness—which are metaphors for her body—is like having the buttocks and breasts of Hottentot Venus debated for public consumption.
Yes, imagine that. More extra points for bringing up Saartje Bartman—made famous once more by inaugural poet Elizabeth Alexander in this phenomenal work. But in terms of beauty norms: Really, what’s the difference between upscale yoga arms and those that can bench 200?
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Anyone have reactions to Obama's speech last night? John Dickerson does a great job analyzing it here, and Politico's Jim Vandehei and Mike Allen have an interesting translation of what Obama really meant in his key passages. And then, of course, there's the chatter about Michelle's "super-sculpted arms."
I don't have much substantive to add to the analysis already going on, but I do have two incredibly superficial additions! One was the apt comparison some of my friends made of the setup last night to a bar mitzvah, both in terms of the relentless standing and sitting ("not another Amidah!" one groaned, as the 2,000th standing ovation erupted) and also the beaming parents sitting in large wooden chairs behind the bar mitzvah boy, inadvertently (or possibly deliberately) stealing his spotlight. Hard as I tried, I just couldn't take my eyes off Nancy "Oh please please can I stand up and clap again this instant" Pelosi and Joe "I'll just scribble some quick notes for my rebuttal" Biden.
My other superficial realization of the night was finally pinpointing why Timothy Geithner has always creeped me out and why I keep picturing him all sweaty and frantic and secretly evil. He looks just like Carl, the Patrick Swayze killer! I Googled it this morning, and I'm not the first to draw the comparison. But man did it put me at ease to pinpoint the source of my discomfort.