What do the clothes say about the man?

MANILA, Philippines -- He paid his laundry woman three pesetas a month, liked to dance, and didn’t drink. These are just some of the little humanizing facts about Jose Rizal that renowned author Dr. Ambeth Ocampo revealed in the 2000 edition of his best-selling book, Rizal Without The Overcoat.

But what was Rizal like with the overcoat? And the hat? And the three-piece suits?

Through the writings and research of Dr. Ocampo, we know some of the intimate sartorial details of Rizal’s life.  We know that he owned a silver tiepin with a gold bee ornament. We know that he had big hats, had a waistline of 25 inches, and his, ahem, kargada was to the right. (Can’t get more intimate than that.)

But what do the clothes say about the man?

During his time in Europe, many photographs were taken of Rizal. Rizal at a dinner party, Rizal fencing, even Rizal as Cleopatra. Many of these pictures show Rizal in what was called a “ditto suit.” This was a jacket, buttoned vest, and pants all made of the same material, hence the term “ditto.”

In an age of frock coats and top hats, a ditto suit was considered informal wear. It bordered on distasteful if you wore all three matching parts at the same time—a sure indicator that you couldn’t afford a more extensive and varied wardrobe. A fashion no-no in high society!

During the 1800s, European fashion had well-heeled gentlemen mix and match the components of their wardrobe. They wore plaid or striped trousers under solid-toned jackets and buttoned vests were usually of a similar hue to the jacket’s color.

Whether or not the colors of Rizal’s ditto suits were a fashion faux pas will continue to remain a black and white mystery.

In a more formal studio setting, Rizal stands in a photograph with fellow ilustrados Marcelo H. del Pilar and Mariano Ponce.

For this photo, Rizal kicks it up a notch style-wise with a frock coat with peaked lapels, a white vest over striped pants and a top hat with an overcoat oh-so-casually slung over his arm. I’d like to think that the good doctor wanted to preen a bit in his version of a power suit.

Imagine Rizal standing in front of his closet, thinking of what to wear. With his eye for detail, as seen in the way he assiduously described things—from architecture and interior design to his own expenses —Rizal was probably mindful of the intricacies of fashion and style. He was accustomed to the upper classes and always traveled first class. Without a doubt, Rizal knew the power of dressing well, hence the power suit. So, sartorially speaking, this suit was a statement to the Spaniards—an elegant announcement that Rizal believed that Filipinos were equal to the Spanish in every way.

Why not the Barong Tagalog? After all, Rizal did keep one or two with him for special events. He could have even made it more fantastic an outfit with his salacot na sungay (conical hat tipped with silver carabao horns), had he brought it with him from the Philippines.

Of course I can’t speak for Rizal, but perhaps wearing the barong wouldn’t have made the point come across. As proud as Rizal was to be a Filipino, he wanted to communicate something to the Spaniards. Plainly put, he talked to the Spanish in “Spanish,” and not in “Tagalog.” Plus, it might have been too cold to wear the barong. Rizal would have shivered too much for the camera to capture!

One other thing that we know about Jose Rizal is that he liked to have his photograph taken. The best and most famous of Rizal’s portraits is also the last one he ever had taken. It is 1890 and Rizal is standing in a studio somewhere in Madrid. Known to be extremely thrifty to the point of being kuripot, Rizal has willingly spent 10 pesetas before to get a proper studio picture. Maybe that’s how much he pays this time around. Ten pesetas could have bought him three baths and four books. Instead, he spent it on documenting his life. A life he believed would not go on past his 30th year.

It is 1890, and Rizal is already 29 years old. In his mind, Rizal believes this will be the last picture ever taken of him.

After scouring the net for any and all available pictures of the man, there is one thing that I’ve noticed.

In most of his pictures, Rizal is looking directly at the viewer or at something off-screen. The gaze is fixed on something concrete and nearby —the photographer, another person, etc. Even his childhood photographs have the same direct gaze.

However, this 1890 studio picture may be the only picture wherein Rizal looks off into the distance. With a rather morbid and uncanny sense of destiny, Rizal knew at a very early age that he was to die young. That is the mindset he has while standing for this portrait.

And this is what he decided to wear: a frock coat with peaked lapels, over a buttoned vest and shirt, topped with a high starched collar. And most important, the famed overcoat.

One wears an overcoat when one is about to leave. If this is the only picture with Rizal in an overcoat, then I’d stylistically speculate that Rizal knew what he was doing. He had accepted fate, done as much as he thought he could do, and was now ready to face the end. In a sense, he was all dressed up and ready to go. Perhaps it was the end he was seeing, the six years that would fly by. In the meantime, Rizal would do his best to live a useful life.

Now, on his 150th birthday, our national hero was last seen sporting aviators and cruising around as the new (old) face of “fashionalism” and Pinoy pride. The image fits. It’s almost as if Rizal is kicking back somewhere and saying, “It’s been smooth sailing for me, being dead and all. I’m done; it’s done. Now it’s up to you!”

Indeed. Now it’s up to us. What will our clothes say?