Books: Exposing Secrets of the Closet

THE LANGUAGE OF CLOTHES by Alison Lurie Random House; 273 pages; $20

In the age of electronic babble and self-actualization, people sometimes fall silent. Their clothes, on the other hand, never shut up. In her first work of nonfiction, Novelist Alison Lurie contends that clothing even has a complete grammar, a complex syntax and a large vocabulary. The accent, however, is rarely standard English. In Lurie’s view, our apparel often speaks in the spicy euphemisms of a stand-up comic or trumpets the dim promises of a politician. The author has previously parodied social—and sexual—intercourse in her novels (The War Between the Tates, The Nowhere City, Real People and Only Children) . In The Language of Clothes, she perceptively treats contemporary fashion as established parody. Paring the flash and roller-glitter of costume, her book becomes an intellectually provocative strip tease. Fashion, claims Lurie, is not the result of commercial brainwashing or a conspiracy of couturiers. Rather, contemporary costumes are the sartorial equivalent of free speech.

But that freedom does not always lead to the clearest statements. Today, she insists, fashion has become a Tower of Babel: “The BBC cameraman who buys his gear when on assignment in the States, and the American lady executive whose clothes were made in Italy, are in a sense imaginary citizens of Los Angeles and Rome, and may be expected to manifest some of the traits associated with these cities.” Of course, some people simply do not care what their apparel says about them: ”An article may be worn because it is warm or rainproof or handy to cover up a wet bathing suit—in the same way that persons of limited vocabulary use the phrase ‘you know’ or adjectives such as ‘great’ or ‘fantastic.’ “

Most folks, however, remain prisoners of their wardrobes. Lurie rummages there and discovers a boutique of conflicting desires. The career woman who carries both a no-nonsense briefcase and a quilted handbag is sending contradictory signals. The young movie mogul in an $800 sports coat over a J.C. Penney denim shirt advertises his wealth while feigning his disregard of it. A frilly apron worn over a severe black dress announces that a woman is only playing at housekeeping.

By European standards, Americans often seem inappropriately dressed. When vacationing, says the author, they “wear clothes suitable for a trip to a disaster area, or for a visit to a zoo or a museum: comfortable, casual, brightly colored, relatively cheap: not calculated to arouse envy or pick up dirt.” At home, what the author deems “regional speech” controls fashion. New Englanders still favor the conservative and tweedy British look. The white dress embellished with large flowers reigns in the South as an announcement that one can afford a laundress. Midwestern men favor suits the color of plowed cornfields. The Western states bloom with cowboy boots and ten-gallon hats. The California style, however, draws out the best in Lurie: ”Clothes tend to fit more tightly than is considered proper elsewhere, and to expose more flesh. . . Virtuous working-class housewives may wear outfits that in any other part of the country would identify them as medium-priced whores.” Children’s clothing conveys different kinds of signals, Lurie believes. Working-class children don suits and fancy dresses for a weekend outing. The middle-class kids are the ones in jeans, sneakers and T shirts. The blue-collar children express upward aspirations by their miniature adult costumes; the white-collar children, notes Lurie, “are not expected to do more than equal their parents’ status, and at the moment they are on probation.”

Elsewhere, Lurie detects a curious connection between the two most publicized American styles, preppie and punk. In their Brooks Bros, and L.L. Bean gear, preppies favor useless buckles on loafers, buttons on Oxford-cloth collars, straps on raincoats and safety pins on kilted skirts. These fastenings strike the author as powerful agents of emotional restraint. Punkers, on the other hand, leave zippers sagging, shirts unbuttoned and wear safety pins through their cheeks as though the flesh itself is literally exploding with rage. The styles may be disparate, Lurie concludes, but “both graphically convey the sense of a world, or a personality, in grave danger of coming apart.”

This message of class confusion may be overstated, but Lurie’s reports from the field of feminine fashion are witty and compact. On designer accessories: “Very ugly brown plastic handbags, which, because they were boldly stamped with the letters ‘LV,’ . . . cost far more than similar but less ugly brown leather handbags.” On excess jewelry: a “lower-middle-class or nouveau riche indicator of sensual laxity.” The “Annie Hall” look: “I’m only playing; I’m not really big enough to wear a man’s pants.” On executive skirts: “Ordinary gestures like sitting on a low sofa or stepping over a puddle become difficult.” On high heels: “The halting tiptoe gait they produce is thought provocative—perhaps because it guarantees that no woman wearing them can outrun a man who is chasing her.” On edible underwear: “If clothes were words, these would be like talking with your mouth full.” Such insights are the constructs of fiction rather than the battlements of feminism. Lurie, after all, is neither psychologist nor sociologist; she remains a novelist.

Like other writers who have had clothing on their minds—Dickens, Proust and Balzac—Lurie can be cranky, bright, bitchy and as startling as a nudist at a dress ball. The Language of Clothes may never be used as a standard text, but it is ideal for those who want to slip into something more comfortable.

—By J.D. Reed

Excerpt

“Black underwear, in the popular imagination, is always erotic . . . however, it may also indicate a practical nature, since black always looks fresh. . . Such simple black underthings are often worn by thoughtful, intellectual women who take sex very seriously. Lacy and revealing black lingerie, on the other hand, is sophisticated, daring and occasionally wicked in its implications. Women who prefer it are more likely to become bored with partners, places and sexual positions; they are also less likely to sit up in bed exclaiming tearfully, ‘Oh, this is awful! What am I doing?’ “