Dr Matt Taylor in his shirt.
Show Hide image

A Shirtgate newflash: wearing a terrible shirt doesn't make you a terrible person

Dr Matt Taylor gave a tearful apology after he was criticised for wearing a shirt covered in semi-naked women. That doesn't make the initial criticism wrong, but it does remind us that there is a difference between sexist acts and sexist people. 

There’s no denying that it was a terrible shirt. From a purely aesthetic perspective, I found it offensive - and that’s before we even get into the symbolic sexism people believed Dr Matt Taylor’s clothing choice demonstrated. I wonder who does the media training for the European Space Agency, because anyone vaguely cognisant of how the viral internet news cycle operates would immediately have earmarked a shirt covered in pictures of semi-naked women as a Very Bad Idea indeed.

Dr Taylor might now be wishing that he had taken a leaf out of Australian TV host Karl Stefanovic’s book. Stefanovic, it emerged this week, wore the same blue suit on air for a year and absolutely no one noticed. What freedom! How the women of the media world must envy him.

That Dr Taylor’s shirt provoked a debate on how women are unrepresented in science can only be a good thing. Whether intentional or unintentional, the clothes we wear send messages, and the message of Taylor’s shirt appeared to be signalling: “Ladies! Rolling around scantily clad, watching fully clothed men landing spaceships on comets, is ultimately what you’re good for.” But does Dr Matt Taylor’s shirt make him a sexist? I think not.

After decades and decades of judging women on their appearance, it appears that our image-dominated internet culture is increasingly scrutinising men’s clothing too. What we choose to wear is symbolic: we are told our clothes say something about us as individuals. Mind you, as anyone who has turned up to a party only to be greeted by three guests in almost identical outfits will know, the choice implicit in the transaction is largely an illusion. The high street presents us with rows and rows of identikit garments, and any deviation from the norm necessarily makes a statement.  Cast your mind back to your school days and you’ll remember that one of the main catalysts for bullying was clothing choices.  A long skirt might make you a frigid geek; a short one and you’re a slut. The same goes for the wrong pair of trackie bottoms; a hole in your jumper; a pair of jeans in an unfashionable cut. Earlier this year, an 11-year-old boy was bullied so badly over his choice of a My Little Pony lunch bag that his school, stupidly, asked him not to bring it in any more.

Bullying and mockery over clothing choices is something that any woman in the public eye will have experienced, from the “circle of shame” in women’s magazines to the Daily Mail’s “Downing Street Catwalk” featuring photographs of new female cabinet ministers alongside commentary about their clothing choices.

“It’s fine if it inspires young girls to go into politics,” said “thigh-flashing” Esther McVey at the time. Not likely. Try going on Twitter after a female guest has appeared on Newsnight or Question Time. And that level of sartorial scrutiny is not the preserve of the internet, trash mags and tabloids, either. The Guardian once put Theresa May’s disembodied brogues on its front page, and in September, a television journalist asked Yelena Serova, the first female cosmonaut in seventeen years, what she was planning to do about her hair while she was in space. In 2013, meanwhile, the comedian Sarah Millican found her BAFTA nomination overshadowed by her choice of dress, after she logged in to Twitter and saw that people were calling her fat and ugly. She cried in the car on the way home. The next day, the newspapers picked up where the tweeters left off. “I’m sorry. I thought I had been invited to such an illustrious event because I am good at my job," Millican responded in the Radio Times. "Putting clothes on is such a small part of my day."

Keyboard warriors sometimes forget the cumulative effect that receiving hundreds of negative messages can have on a person’s psyche. Seeing anyone - male or female, Sarah Millican or Dr Matt Taylor - in tears because a lot of people dislike something as simple as their outfit, will be disappointing to anyone who believes that human beings should be defined first and foremost by their actions. Taylor’s shirt may have become symbolic of endemic sexism in science, but we need to separate criticising the shirt's message from criticising him. Feminists should not be engaging in the kind of shallow, superficial scrutiny that women have been enduring for decades.  Look at my comments about the shirt at the beginning of this article. Were they really necessary?

Of course, the case of Taylor differs in that the motivation of his critics was political - raising awareness of sexism - while Millican was the victim of sexist abuse. But the root of the problem is the same. Clothing is seen to define the individual, and thus criticism of it feels personal even when it isn’t. Women are scrutinised far more than men, though the latter are by no means immune (see recent political storms regarding the wearing or not of feminist T-shirts for guidance). Millican rightly pointed out that on the red carpet, her husband was not asked once about his ASDA suit. Stefanovic wore the same suit every day in protest at the scrutiny faced by his female colleagues for their on-air clothing choices. In a similar act of defiance, Daniel Radcliffe wears the same outfit for five months of the year, to hamper paparazzi efforts to sell photographs of him every time he leaves the house, and is not the only guy to do so: Simon Cowell and Mark Zuckerberg do it to avoid having to waste time making decisions. Should female celebrities start doing the same? “I made a decision the following day that should I ever be invited to attend the Baftas again, I will wear the same dress,” Millican wrote, in the Radio Times, after her bad experienec.

We live in a society where a woman choosing to wear clothing to please herself, and not others, has become a political act. I suspect, as with Millican, putting clothes on constituted a very small part of Taylor’s day. As clothing retailers become all the more homogenous, the great lie that fashion provides us with a means of expressing ourselves is becoming much more difficult to buy into, and yet, people are still trotting it out as though it means something.

Earlier this year, I was asked to speak at Stoke Newington Literary Festival alongside my Vagenda co-editor Holly Baxter and the everyday sexism campaigner Laura Bates. During the Q&A session, an older, second-wave feminist stood up. Then, in a room packed with people, she drew attention to our long, feminine hair, some of which was, she “suspected”, coloured with hair dye. She criticised our skirts, and the fact that we were wearing make-up. All of these adornments, she reckoned, undermined our feminist credentials. It felt horrible and shaming. At the same time, I felt as though I had done something wrong. It felt personal. “This isn’t me”, I wanted to say. I imagine it’s what Dr Matt Taylor felt like saying, too. And Sarah Millican. And anyone else who has been made a spectacle of because of the fabric they use to keep their bodies warm. “I am more than this”, you want to shout. “SO MUCH MORE.”

My takeaway point from all this is that the clothes we wear say very little about us, and one hell of a lot more about the society around us. It’s unlikely that Taylor’s shirt defines his views on women, any more than the length of a skirt defines a woman’s sexual availability, or Esther McVey's dress defines her as a politician (and where was Boris Johnson to criticise people for noticing someone's clothing choice then?) But it does say a lot about the environment Taylor was working in (had there been a few women around, I’m fairly sure they would have had something to say). The Internet would do well to remember to fight the system and not the people in it. It’s either that, or wear the same thing every day.

Yes, it was a terrible shirt, but that doesn't say much about the person inside it.

Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett is a writer for the New Statesman and the Guardian. She co-founded The Vagenda blog and is co-author of The Vagenda: A Zero Tolerance Guide to the Media.

Getty
Show Hide image

Drama without sensation: A Separation is an unsettling novel of distances

In Katie Kitamura’s novel, it is the distance between the narrator’s two selves that causes her most discomfort.

In a 2013 interview with Guernica, the online magazine, the novelist Katie Kitamura discussed how publishing’s “deeply patronising attitude” towards female readers results in overtly feminine book covers, featuring, for instance, women in bathing suits. “That’s not the kind of book cover that makes me want to buy a book,” she said.

The cover of Kitamura’s latest novel, A Separation, does, surprisingly, feature a woman in a bathing suit. But there is something quietly unsettling about this picture: the woman, who has her back to us, is awkwardly cropped out of frame from the elbows up, and she is sitting at the edge of an oddly shaped pool. Most of the cover is solid turquoise – a bright wash of negative space.

Kitamura’s unnamed narrator is a poised literary translator. As the novel opens in London, we learn that she is married to Christopher (a charming, haphazard non-author) but, in secret, they have been living separately for the past six months. When she receives a telephone call from Christopher’s mother, Isabella, informing her that he has seemingly gone missing in Greece, she doesn’t let on about her disintegrating marriage but boards a plane to look for him.

Much of the rest of the novel takes place in Greece: at a “very pleasant” hotel, in “perfect weather”, the pool “heated to a very comfortable temperature”. The area has recently experienced a string of devastating fires, leaving patches of scorched earth. The location has an almost eerie surface stillness that jars with the mystery at its heart. In this way, Kitamura (an art critic as well as novelist) creates a setting somehow reminiscent of David Hockney’s A Bigger Splash, Christopher’s sudden disappearance leaving behind no visible ripples.

The narrator, too, has a glassy composure at odds with the tumultuous events. On deciding to end her marriage formally, she shows neither despair nor relief, but anxiety about the etiquette. “I assumed – I had no prior experience to go on – that asking for a divorce was always discomfiting,” she says with typical understatement, “but I could not believe it was always this awkward.” Of her feelings for her new partner, Yvan, she notes that they seem more like “administration rather than passion”, and then offers a moderated gloss of Hamlet, “You cannot say you did it out of love, since at your age romantic passions have grown weak, and the heart obeys reason.

Her emotional separation from the trauma of her circumstances allows the narrator to examine the facts of her husband’s disappearance. She knows Christopher was unfaithful and she immediately identifies the hotel receptionist as the object of his attentions. We never see the narrator professionally translating, but the novel is concerned with her attempts to read the deeper meanings behind the remarks and behaviour of those around her. She finds it easy to imagine unseen contexts to conversations: an argument between Christopher’s parents, an embrace between her taxi driver and the hotel receptionist. As she writes, “Imagination, after all, costs nothing.”

Her propensity for projection is such that some things remain lost in translation. Even the most minute interactions can be misread. When Christopher’s mother comments that the two women’s love for her son connects them, “she was looking over my shoulder, as if watching someone approach . . . she was staring at nothing”. The novel occupies this imaginative negative space: the gap between what people think and how they appear.

Ultimately, it is the distance between the narrator’s two selves that causes her most discomfort. How long will she allow others to read her as the concerned, loving wife? Should she admit she wants to find Christopher in order to request that they separate officially? As her search continues she notes, “There was a small but definite wedge pushing between the person I was and the person I was purporting to be.”

There is a suspenseful and menacing tone to Kitamura’s prose that might trick a reader into thinking, at first, they are in the territory of thrillers such as Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train. Both these novels, like A Separation, have narrators who defy readers’ attempts to fathom their emotional depths and to deal with questions of how well you know anyone – even your own partner. But this is a work free of sensation, or even resolution. As the narrator notes, in the shock of an event it is natural to look for a more dramatic narrative. “But in the end,” she says, “this is only chasing shadows. The real culpability is not to be found in the dark or with a stranger, but in ourselves.”

A Separation by Katie Kitamura is published by Clerkenwell Press (231pp, £12.99)

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution