Ahead Online: American Accent

Jacqueline Kennedy: The White House Years

By Karen Sue Smith

Who would have thought it? Instead of the paintings of the English master William Blake, the blockbuster exhibit at New York’s Metropolitan Museum has turned out to be a selection of day dresses and evening gowns, the “official wardrobe,” worn by the former First Lady. Hamish Bowles, the Vogue editor who organized the show, must be delighted.

orty years after the inauguration of President John F. Kennedy, this exhibition celebrates the style and persona that Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy herself brought to the White House. The youngest-ever wife of a president-elect, she entered the door at 31. Yet in just three short years she became not merely another of America’s “most admired” women, but an American icon. The clothes on display—by Dior, Givenchy, Cassini, and other internationally known designers—hint at the grace and flair that people the world over saw in Mrs. Kennedy, yet they cannot tell the whole story. For that we need Mrs. Kennedy herself, who is shown in huge photographic blow-ups, intimate family snapshots, a selection of letters and personal effects, and, most important of all, in video clips. On video we hear her voice, accent, and articulate speech. We see her speak in French and in Spanish to throngs of spectators at home and abroad. We glimpse her wit, listen to her laughter, and see for ourselves the warmth and intelligence of her personality.
Today, many of the clothes women everywhere once wanted to imitate look a bit dated, even homespun with their wide hems, oversized buttons, and square, tailored look. But the photographs and videos show just how different these very garments appear when worn by Jackie herself. It is she, full of vitality, agility, and youth, who brings these clothes to life. Given her tall, slim, and rather flat figure, her long neck and broad shoulders, she wore to maximum effect coats and jackets shaped like boxes and sleeveless A-line shifts. Her nut-brown hair contrasted well with bright colors (the palette she chose for her trip to India and Pakistan) as well as beige and white, the colors of her inaugural ensemble. On that cold day in January 1961, the new president’s wife dazzled Washington by wearing an off-white coat and matching pillbox hat, accented by a sable muff and sable-trimmed high-heeled boots. She stood out appropriately against the sea of “bears,” those hundreds of Congressional wives all dressed in full-length furs. The understated elegance of the “Jackie look” included one other signature touch, white gloves, which she wore religiously, even atop an elephant in India.

acqueline Kennedy was unlike most Americans, even most First Ladies. Her insistence on couture reflected her taste and wealth. Of French ancestry, schooled in French history and literature, and fluent in the language (she read DeGaulle’s memoirs in their original French), she adored French fashion. When critics grumbled about her support of foreign designers, however, she demurred, switching to Oleg Cassini, an American (student of the French Balenciaga).

ost glamourous is Mrs. Kennedy’s evening wear—strapless, shimmering, Grecian, or princess-like, often draped in shawls or capes. She wore a different hairstyle with each gown. Jackie Kennedy understood the power of image. “What does my hairdo have to do with my husband’s ability to be president?” she asked during the presidential campaign. But she knew the answer: quite a lot, actually. In a Life magazine photo she smiles at members of the Royal Canadian police during a state visit, wearing a matching red—a visual sign of the harmony between the two countries. For a visit to Pope John XXIII, she chose an austere black dress, a lavish comb supporting her lace mantilla. She, a dark tower next to the little pope, a snow ball in white satin, surrounded by cardinals in red. When Jackie sits beside Nikita Khrushchev at a ballet (his stocky wife next to the dashing JFK), the photo contrasts the vigorous New Frontier with the dowdy Soviet empire.
The eeriest part of the exhibit, however (which, after July 29, returns to the Kennedy Library in Boston), is that we look upon the First Family at the pinnacle of their lives, unaware of what is about to happen to them. Yet we know it. I saw no blood-stained dress mentioned in this exhibit, nor is the funeral dress on view—two glaring omissions. Consequently, the icon appears thinly drawn, more of a caricature than a portrait of the woman whose grace in the face of violence and grief would hold together a mourning nation, until the mantle of leadership could be passed.

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