In Defence of Clothes: Mary Wollstonecraft on the Green
‘Clothes define people. We all know that clothes are limiting, and she is everywoman’: so said artist Maggi Hambling in November of this year, in staunch response to a cacophony of online criticism following the unveiling of her new statue commemorating the pioneering 18th century philosopher and educator, Mary Wollstonecraft.
More than 200 years after her death and after 10 years of grassroots campaigning, the considerable achievements of the ‘Mother of Feminism’ were cast in silvery bronze, in a rendering not of but for Wollstonecraft. From atop a swirling mass of feminine potential emerges a minute nude figure, triumphant and challenging in stature and stance. What followed was the ignition of a fierce debate surrounding, amongst other things, the decision to present this ‘everywoman’ without clothes.
Such was the strength of feeling that Islington residents awoke several days later to find the sculpture draped symbolically in a knitted jumper. But for Hambling, therein lay the problem: in the eyes of the artist, ‘clothes would have restricted her. Statues in historic costume look like they belong to history because of their clothes. It’s crucial that she is ‘now’’.
An alternative proposal put forward by Martin Jennings in the early planning stages had presented Wollstonecraft leaning on a stack of books and dressed in the garb that the woman herself would have worn. To create her likeness so faithfully would have sartorially consigned her to the 18th century, a presentation described by some as ‘offensive’, though arguably it was her very location there that made her so extraordinary. In presenting a nude figure the statue has, much like Wollstonecraft’s own ideas, provoked dissent; it’s true that the naked female form represents so much more than sexuality, though perhaps in 2020 it’s not as radical a decision as the artist might think.
One aspect of Hambling’s statement that received less attention - and, predictably, piqued my own - was her representation of clothing as entrapment. This perception is not unique: the world of fashion is so often seen as frivolous at best, nefarious at worst. But to my own mind, our relationship with what we wear is infinitely more nuanced, and so to cast clothing as little more than repressive is to misunderstand the reciprocal act of selecting one’s own attire.
Clothing has not always been kind. We choose heels that hurt us, undergarments that squeeze us, dresses that contort us. Nevertheless, we choose. We do so because it makes us feel a certain way; if we can feel a certain way, we can behave a certain way; and if we behave a certain way, we can - sometimes - accomplish greatness. Clothes are armour, magic, conviction, commiseration. We give our garments power, and they give it back to us.
For thousands of years, clothing has been an essential part of human own self-definition. That’s not to say that the right to choose is a given: dress has been subject to various rules and regulations throughout history, and to this day it’s used and misused as a form of control, particularly over the female body. But when given the option to express ourselves sartorially, what we wear is the single most dynamic means of outward communication and confrontation available to us.
Much like the pioneering words of Mary Wollstonecraft, clothing is both of its time and timeless. Everything from haute couture to the high-street fashions of today owe something - and often, everything - to style statements that came before. Clothing is a vital part of our shared material culture; it belongs no more to history than books or paintings or symphonies or ideas. What we opt to wear each day is symbolic of how we view ourselves and how we want to be viewed; far from fatuous, clothing was and remains one of the most potent and radical forms of self-expression. Our attire represents how we choose to be seen by the world: the marker and maker of “everywoman”.