Bring Back Dress Codes!
Dress codes are markers of membership, renunciations of self and affirmations of belonging and attachment.
My first-ever visit to the opera gave me the change to wear a lovely black velvet dress (with puff sleeves) and a pair of patent black heels. Opportunities to display such an outfit had been few and far between; and the opera, being the opera, seemed just the occasion I was yearning for. Moreover, the friend with whom I was to see Tosca had said to me beforehand (with clear distress) that ‘no one dresses up for the opera anymore’. ‘Can you believe it?’ she wrote to me on WhatsApp, ‘I went to Don Giovanni the other week and there was a man in a t-shirt and jeans sitting right by the orchestra.’ I felt obliged — nay, compelled — to uphold, or at any rate attempt, to restore standards, and neither I nor my friend, who looked exquisite in a cream dress and rose-gold heels, regretted it.
It would seem on the face of things that to relax or abolish a dress code is to sweep away an arbitrary restriction and grant each of us more personal freedom and so a chance to express our personality in whatever way we choose. On this view, there is something quaint and even oppressive and sinister about suggesting we ought to wear this or that. But I am not sure I agree. In fact it seems to me that incursion on our freedom to express ourselves is exactly why dress codes are useful. Suppressing our individuality frees us from our habitual self-consciousness, quelling, to a great extent, our ability to compete and compare ourselves with those around us. In respect of the opera, or the theatre, or a wedding, this has the byproduct of drawing attention away from ourselves, and in the former two cases away from the audience and towards the stage, where our focus ought to be.
Suppressing our individuality frees us from our habitual self-consciousness, quelling our urge and ability to compete and compare.
Of course dress codes are, or can be, markers of membership. We distinguish ourselves as members of a certain group — of opera- or theatre-goers, of football or chess club players, of groomsmen or bridesmaids (or groomsmaids and bridesmen)—by wearing clothes connected with that group. By wearing what we are asked to wear, we set aside our individuality and temporarily affirm the collective, and we give our respect to whatever institution requires and upholds the dress code, strengthening both that institution and our sense of solidarity with it.
But what we wear also affects how we feel. According to what psychologists call ‘enclothed cognition’, we can put ourselves in a certain state of mind by wearing what we associate with it. When we wear a suit, for example, we tend to think in a more structured way; looser-fitting clothing increases our creativity. Brighter colours cheer us up. When we wear a dress or a tuxedo we enter a mental space where behaviour is more refined than it might be if we were wearing a towel or our pyjamas. The Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius would allegedly change into a sort of home toga when he returned to the palace from the Senate to put himself in a state of mind more conducive to rest than political jostling.
The Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius would change into a ‘home toga’ when he returned to the palace from the Senate in order to induce a state conducive to rest.
When we comply, willingly or not, with a dress code, we dignify the mundane business of getting ready to leave our home, turning it into a ritual which slows the rhythm of our day and forces us to come into the moment, rather than rush around in pursuit of whatever comes next. And no dress code is so strict as to stop us from showing some individuality, in the form of a statement necklace or a pocket square, for instance. Indeed, these subtle expressions of our character are invariably more striking and impressive than a more thoroughgoing show of our uniqueness. Style is, after all, knowing how to break the rules judiciously. Anyone can break rules.
And if, as is my suspicion, dress codes have been relaxed at the opera in the name of promoting inclusivity, of which I am very much in favour, then I would only suggest that dress codes can, in fact, encourage more inclusivity, not less. By telling us what to wear, the institution that upholds a dress code frees us from having to choose what suits the occasion, which may come more easily to some than others, and becomes a kind of glue that joins each person together. Perhaps, then, the London Coliseum, where I saw Tosca (which was fantastic, by the way) is missing a beat. Perhaps, by bringing in just a few small restrictions, or even just some guidance, it could also bring in a bit more glamour, and a calmer emotional atmosphere, while being perfectly inclusive.
