Travel back in time with me to February 08, to a Vogue magazine profile that does what Vogue magazine profiles always do: marry the notion of outstanding accomplishment to the notion of Vogue-sanctioned chic. The hook: "A woman governor—Alaskan Republican Sarah Palin—is attracting national attention by breaking the mold at home."
In the profile, one of the photos of Sarah Palin shows her posed against a small plane. The photo is practically a Vogue checklist: Beautifully low-lighted hair pulled into a chic yet relaxed updo? Check. Natural makeup that gives the impression of a face untouched by time or sun damage? Check. An ensemble that evokes classic silhouettes while including just enough modern details to "elevate" the look beyond boring basics? Check.
The Vogue profile was a canny piece of positioning by Palin, part of a campaign to convince GOP brahmins she deserved a national stage. But the Vogue styling was aimed squarely at its readers, who like to see the magazine's subjects looking refined, discriminating, tasteful.
The burnishing of Palin's image continued through the '08 election year, with her well-tailored suits, elegant eyeglass frames, expertly done neutral makeup. It was a cannily manufactured set of signals, one meant to make Palin seem like she was possessed of gravitas and good judgment.
That the image didn't match whatever was coming out of her mouth isn't the point.
The point is, she looked like the kind of politician who would be in Vogue. She looked like she knew the coded languages of America's circles of power. Americans like that sort of image; we respond well to people who look what we think "classy" people look like. It strikes a chord with our founding myth, that a bunch of classy guys like Thomas Jefferson decided to revolt on behalf of ordinary colonists everywhere.
It is absolutely not a coincidence that the first wave of post-campaign revelations recounted the hillbillies from Wasilla rampaging through department stores and trashing all their nice new clothing. What is the first step in deconstructing a powerful visual image? Revealing it to be a sham.
I don't watch a lot of cable news, so I haven't exactly been keeping abreast of Palin's post-campaign career. So I was rather surprised when I ran across a photo in New York magazine purporting to be of Palin. I had honestly thought it was of Katey Sagal in character as a biker's old lady on Sons of Anarchy.
The photo is the exact opposite of the Vogue snap. Part of it is circumstantial -- it's a candid snap, instead of a posed shot that's the creation of stylists -- but the underlying elements are striking for how different they are from the Palin of '08.
The hair's no longer tasteful and age-appropriate; the coloring looks both harsh and inexpertly done. Palin's face looks haggard, her body unexpectedly frail in clothing that fits poorly and looks too young. And those aren't the shoes of a power broker; they're the kind of things that Candie's -- which once ran an ad campaign featuring noted vaccine non-expert Jenny McCarthy sitting on the toilet like it was a good thing -- would proudly claim.
I am not exaggerating when I say I was shocked. Four years ago, Palin was polished and positioned on a fast track to lasting prominence in the GOP. Now, she looked like someone from a Bravo show, and not one where talented chefs vie for start-up cash and national press.
"She traded political power for celebrity," a coworker said. In an era where our president's re-election campaign bombarded people with emails promising celebrity meet-and-greets, it's not hard to see why anyone might want to swap one for the other. Statecraft means selling ideas to lots of people, often quietly and for little money. Celebrity means selling yourself, loudly and lucratively.
When Palin hopped back on cable TV yesterday, reminding us that merely one electoral cycle ago she was in the running to be the second-in-command of this country, she was back in political drag: a red suit to remind us all that she can wear Republican lady power clothing, an American flag pin, the glasses.
But it feels like drag, i.e. a constructed persona she put on as a performative statement. The patina of classy competence has been knocked off: There's nothing subtle about the hair or makeup anymore, and the necklace suggests a woman who's never heard the Coco Chanel adage about looking in the mirror and taking off one accessory before walking out the door.
Vogue readers, those career-having, college-educated women residing in the 82nd percentile of American households by income, know the Coco Chanel adage.
The rapid remodeling of Palin's public image -- which took place in tandem with her declining political fortunes -- is fascinating. It means something that the "mainstream" media outlets like New York and Buzzfeed are gleefully featuring her as sliding down the "classy" slope at the same time as the Onion merrily flogs the joke that Joe Biden is a relentless vulgarian.
And therein lies the dark joke: Biden is wrapped in a patina of privilege -- establishment privilege, white privilege, male privilege -- so we can joke about him washing his Trans-Am in the White House driveway. But with Palin, people have suspected that she'd actually do it.
Sarah Palin and her public personae represent a facet of the culture wars that often goes unexamined. Class in America is not merely about income level or access to opportunity. It is also about deciphering the social codes people use to identify One Of Us. Palin had cracked the establishment code back in 2008. In 2012, she seems to have either lost her Rosetta stone or decided to ignore it altogether. What I'd like to know is why.
