A Brief Note on the Material Basis of Identity by Jazz Griffin

Jazz Griffin: the Invisible Punk

 (SA/2025) [1] 

 

 

I. 

 

A recently published post on the way in which my memory of the past is inextricably interwoven with the suits I was wearing during the different stages of my life [2] has brought me (once more) to the conclusion that clothes do indeed maketh the man ... [3].  

 

I might not go so far as to say that if we went around naked we'd have no memories, no history, no culture, but, on the other hand, it's certainly the case that items of dress (and other personal objects) play a crucial role in anchoring the self and remembering the past. 

 

Having the memory of a goldfish and lacking a strong sense of self, I'm not at all certain I'd recall the people I've met, the places I've been, or the things I've done, were it not for the fact that I still have (some of) the jackets, trousers, shirts, ties, and shoes stuffed in the back of my wardrobe (although diaries, notebooks, and photo albums obviously act as vital aides-mémoire too).

 

Indeed, I'm pretty sure that had you unstrapped the straps, unzipped the zips, and stripped me of the tartan bondage suit I was wearing (aged 21) in the above photo, I'd have vanished before your very eyes, like Jack Griffin as he slowly unwound his bandages [4]. 

 

 

II. 

 

We might conclude, therefore, that just as it's language that speaks us (and not vice versa) [5], so too do our clothes wear us (so to speak) and not the other way round; something which the most philosophical of fashion historians, designers, and researchers interested in enclothed cognition [6] have long appreciated.

 

In other words, our lives are literally fabricated; cut out and stitched together from a pattern like a well-tailored suit and finished with individual details.    

 

 

Notes

 

[1] This image is based on a photo from 1984 in which the model is wearing a tartan bondage suit, seditionaries-style boots, and a McLarenettes Punk It Up T-shirt 

 

[2] See the post entitled 'Suits You, Sir!' (5 July 2025): click here.

 

[3] The idea that clothing plays a crucial role in not only how men and women present themselves to the world and are perceived by others, but in actually constructing identity is, of course, as old as the hills and variations of the phrase clothes maketh the man can be traced back, like most things, to the Ancient Greeks. For those who spoke Latin, like Erasmus, author of a famous collection of proverbs and adages at the beginning of the 16th century, the phrase read: vestis virum facit. 

      Those moralists who think the opposite - i.e., that clothes don't make the man - and who drone on about inner qualities and a person's true character or substance being more important than appearance are, in my view, philosophically naive.

      Readers who are interested in this can click here for a post published on 31 May 2023 that touches on the topic with reference to the coronation of King Charles III. And for a post on how clothes maketh the woman - with reference to the queer case of Nellie March in D. H. Lawence's novella The Fox (1922) - click here.          

 

[4] Jack Griffin is the name of the chemist played by Claude Rains in the 1933 film The Invisible Man, directed by James Whale, and loosely based on the novel of that title by H. G. Wells (1897). Click here for the big reveal scene on YouTube. 

 

[5] This idea of language speaking man is usually attributed to Heidegger. It challenges the traditional view of language as a tool humans use to express themselves by suggesting that the internal logic, structure, and history of language actively shapes our thinking and understanding of the world. See, for example, what he writes in his essay 'Language', in Poetry, Language, Thought, trans. Albert Hofstadter (Harper Perennial, 1975), pp. 189-210. 

 

[6] Enclothed cognition refers to the influence that clothing has on the wearer's thoughts, feelings, actions, and behaviours. The term was coined by Hajo Adam and Adam D. Galinsky who have been experimenting in this area since 2012. See their study in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology Volume 48, Issue 4, (July 2012), pp. 918-925. The abstract and excerpts from the report can be read here.  

 

 

Finally, readers who want to know more might like to read Memories of Dress: Recollections of Material Identities, ed. Alison Slater, Susan Atkin, and Elizabeth Kealy-Morris (Bloomsbury, 2023). Do note, however,  that I've not yet read this collection of essays, so can't says whether it's worth the RRP of £85 for the hardback edition (or even the RRP of £28.99 for the paperback). 

 

 

Even the Moon's Frightened of Me! (Philosophical Reflections on the Case of the Invisible Man)

 Claude Rains as The Invisible Man

(Universal Pictures, 1933)

"We'll begin with a reign of terror, a few murders here and there; murders of great men, murders of little men - 

just to show we make no distinction." 

I: The Invisible Man and the Ring of Gyges

The Invisible Man is one of the most philosophically interesting fictional characters within the cultural imagination. First appearing (and disappearing) in a short novel by H. G. Wells in 1897, he challenges us to address important ethical questions, including the following: Is virtuous behaviour dependent upon observation?  
 
In order to answer, we might refer back to Plato's Republic and the Ring of Gyges ...

The Ring of Gyges, for those unfamiliar with the above text, is a magical object which granted its owner the power to become invisible at will. In the Republic, Plato's brother Glaucon doubts that any man is so naturally good that he'd resist the temptation of performing wicked deeds were he invisible:

"No man would keep his hands off what was not his own if he could safely steal what he liked from the market, or enter houses and fuck with any one at his pleasure, kill, or release from prison whom he wished and in all respects be like a god among men."

This proves, he argues, that morality is a social construct - not an inherent trait - whose foundation is a desire to maintain one's reputation and avoid public shame or punishment. If, however, there was no danger of that thanks to an ability to become invisible, then one's moral character would also soon vanish and the just man would be indistinguishable from the unjust. 

Glaucon concludes that all men know in their hearts that crime pays and that anyone who had the power of invisibility but failed to exploit it fully would be thought to be an idiot by others. Thus he's obliged to take personal advantage of the power in order not to seem stupid. In other words, whilst the man who can be seen protects his public image by being virtuous, the man who becomes imperceptible only keeps face by behaving in an immoral fashion.

It takes him a while, but Socrates eventually addresses this argument and reaffirms his belief that moral virtue is divine in origin rather than social and that it's ultimately always in the individual's best interest to be just rather than unjust, because the gods love the former and will reward them accordingly if not in this life then in the next.

Those who would abuse the gift of invisibility, are, says Socrates, enslaved by their own base appetites; only the man who freely chooses not to use such power remains master of himself and is therefore truly happy.      


II: The Invisible Man and the Helm of Darkness

If Plato helps explain why Dr Griffin's invisibility triggers his criminality, it doesn't answer why we find him so much more disturbing and unheimlich than other masked maniacs, such as the Phantom of the Opera, for example. Why is it that the latter exposing his facial disfigurement doesn't unnerve us as much as when the former strips away his bandages to reveal no face at all?

To help answer this, we must again turn to the ancient Greeks and consider the Helm of Darkness worn by Hades ...

In Greek mythology, the Helm of Darkness is a helmet that enables the wearer to become invisible. Zeus has his lightning bolt; Poseidon has his trident. But it's Hades, the chthonic god, who possesses the magical helmet which gained him his title of the Unseen One.    

It's because of this link between invisibility and the Underword - i.e., between invisibility and the gloomy realm of death - that the Invisible Man continues to unsettle as a figure. For no one wants to be reminded of the death that awaits them; an undifferentiated state devoid of all personal characterization into which all mortal things eventually vanish.  

Certainly the ancient Greeks didn't. To them, Hades was a fearsome figure and they avoided even mentioning his name if possible (indeed, around the 5th century BC they began to refer to him by the more positive-sounding name of Pluto) and when they made a sacrifice to him (often of a black sheep) they always made sure to hide or avert their faces - as if making themselves invisible before him.  

In sum, in as much as the Invisible Man triggers some kind of mythological memory of Hades, this is why he creeps us out. He particularly upsets those who refuse to confront the ontological truth that Dasein rests upon the void of non-being (sein Nicht-mehr-dasein, as Heidegger writes). It's this that produces horror in those egoists who, as D. H. Lawrence says, dare not die for fear they should be nothing at all.


See: Plato, The Republic, 2:358a-2:360d and 10:612b.