THE TRUSTEES OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM
Knot of Hercules, Ilias Lalaounis.
THE TRUSTEES OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM
This gold brooch-clip is decorated with a winged chimaera, a beast that was popular in Etruscan mythology. Etruscan, circa 525–500 BC. Courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum.
The concept of the safety pin—in which a needle-like shaft, a hinge, and a sheath combine to secure an object—dates back to ancient Crete, the home turf of Theseus and his ill-tempered Minotaur. Metalsmiths in pre-Christian Etruria (present-day Tuscany) skillfully shaped such pins into the form of lions, horses, or the Sphinx before adding the frosting: tiny granules of gold. The brooch-clip, which clenches the fabric rather than piercing it, has been used widely since the 1930s. I cite this history to prove that I could not possibly have been the first person to be publicly embarrassed by a pin that came undone in a moment of need.
In December 1996, President Clinton nominated me to serve as America’s sixty-fourth secretary of state. For the announcement, I wore one of my pins as a pendant. Liberty Eagle, Ann Hand.
AP/WIDEWORLD PHOTOS
On January 23, 1997, shortly before noon, I was sworn in as secretary of state, the first woman to hold that position. Ever since, people have asked what I was feeling at the time. The answer is that my attention was divided between the drama of the moment and the possibility that my pin would fall off, landing on the floor in front of President Clinton and the assembled cameras. I had been introduced to the pin weeks earlier at the Tiny Jewel Box. Jim Rosenheim, one of the proprietors, brought it to me as soon as I walked in, saying he had acquired the piece with me in mind. The brooch is antique, French, and composed of rose-cut diamonds and a gold eagle with widespread wings. It was love at first sight, but I balked at the cost. Saying no to Jim, I inwardly promised to reverse that decision should I be named secretary of state, then a possibility but hardly a likelihood.
When that possibility became reality, I bought the eagle and chose to wear it for the first time at the swearing in. What I failed to notice was that the clasp was not only old but also complicated; fastening it was a multistep process that I neglected to complete. All seemed well until I had one hand on the Bible and the other in the air. Then, a glance down revealed the pin hanging sideways. With all the hubbub, I had no time to correct the problem until after most of the photos were taken, showing my beautiful pin only in profile, contributing nothing to the symbolism of the moment but much to my angst. Years later, when publishing my memoirs, I tried to make amends by wearing the eagle—properly fastened—on the cover.
COURTESY OF WILLIAM J. CLINTON PRESIDENTIAL LIBRARY/CALLIE SHELL
By tradition, it is the vice president, not the president, who administers the oath of office to a cabinet member. Here, the president looks on as Al Gore and I get in some practice just outside the Oval Office. At that point, my eagle pin was still secure.
COURTESY OF WILLIAM J. CLINTON PRESIDENTIAL LIBRARY/RALPH ALSWANG
Flanked by President Clinton and Vice President Gore, I deliver remarks following my swearing in. My precious eagle is barely hanging on. Secretary of State Diamond Eagle, designer unknown.
COURTESY OF WILLIAM J. CLINTON PRESIDENTIAL LIBRARY/BARBARA KINNEY
During an overseas trip, I needed to confer privately with First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton. Where better than the ladies’ room? I was proud to be the first woman to serve as secretary of state and delighted when Secretary Clinton became one of my successors. Opposite is a pin showing the glass ceiling in its ideal condition: shattered. Breaking the Glass Ceiling, designer unknown.
Atlas, Hervé van der Straeten.
III. Body Language
By the time, in early 1997, when I began serving as secretary of state, my penchant for pins had become well-known. It helped that the picture on the front of Newsweek featured me with my combination Uncle Sam’s hat and eagle. Since I was wearing brooches and getting photographed more than ever, the public’s perception of the connection grew. Due to the demands on my time, I had fewer opportunities for browsing through shops, but it didn’t matter, because everyone began giving me pins.
TIMOTHY GREENFIELD-SANDERS/NEWSWEEK
Newsweek cover, February 10, 1997. Photograph by Timothy Greenfield-Sanders.
When diplomats meet, it is considered only civilized to exchange gifts. Legally, American officials may retain foreign offerings that are below a certain value—in my day, $245. More expensive items become the property of the U.S. government and are displayed, stored, or sold for the benefit of the federal treasury. Another option is to purchase the present at full price, which I did on a few occasions. Some particularly large gifts, such as the handsome live horse with which I was presented in Mongolia or the endearingly vocal goat I was given in Mali, are actually retained by the hosts and, I suspect, given more than once to dignitaries passing through Ulan Bator or Bamako.
Selecting the perfect gift for a foreign minister is like finding “just the right thing” for a distant relative. The choice requires a blend of common sense, intuition, and guesswork. I generally gave mementos that reflected the United States: to men, eagle cuff links; to women, a specially made eagle pin that I signed on the back.
My gifts to foreign leaders. Foreign Minister’s eagle, Christine Harkins;
eagle cuff links, Ann Hand.
Solana’s flower, Primakov’s snowy scene, Védrine’s French design, designers unknown;
Axworthy’s maple leaf, Ann Hand.
MIKE THEILER/REUTERS
Robin Cook gave me this striking Judith Leiber lion pin. I made sure to wear it during our press conference in 2000.
MIKE THEILER/REUTERS
Scripture instructs us that it is more blessed to give than to receive, but it says nothing about which is more fun. My colleagues in the diplomatic community were pleased to assume that, in my case, a clever but inexpensive pin would always be appreciated. They were right. From British Foreign Secretary Robin Cook, I was given a lion brooch; from Canada’s Lloyd Axworthy, a maple leaf; from France’s Hubert Védrine, a sparkly French design; from NATO’s Javier Solana, a delicate flower; and from Russia’s Yevgeny Primakov and Igor Ivanov, lacquer pins showing various snowy scenes hand-painted in the intricate Russian style. You might think that enough would be enough, but to an aspiring collector, every addition is exciting. When presented with a gift-wrapped box, I ripped the ribbons off with heartfelt thanks and relish. The only problem I had was remembering to wear the pin in my next meeting with the person who had given it. As my Wellesley classmate Judith Martin (Miss Manners) might have reminded me, etiquette counts.
Among my favorite gifts is one from Leah Rabin, the widow of Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. The pin is of a dove, symbolizing the goal—peace in the Holy Land—for which the prime minister had given his life. Like many of my predecessors, I had been reluctant to wander into the quicksand of Middle East negotiations. A series of terrorist incidents in the summer of my first year as secretary, however, left me with no choice. If leaders did not find a way to bring people together, extremists on every side would prepare for a future without peace, pointing inevitably to disaster.
AMR NABIL/AFP/GETTY IMAGES
In September 1999, Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak (second from left) and I witnessed the signing of an interim agreement between Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak and Palestinian Chairman Yasser Arafat.
In 1997, on August 6, I appeared before the National Press Club to outline ideas for negotiation and to announce plans for a trip to the region. The speech drew a full house, which, when combined with the television lights, warmed the room. I felt flushed and would probably have fainted had I not been petrified by what the newspapers would have written. Somehow I made it through the speech; Leah Rabin, among others, noted the dove pin displayed prominently on my chest.
UPI
A gift from Chairman Arafat. Butterfly, designer unknown.
A few weeks lat
er, Mrs. Rabin came to see me at my hotel in Israel. She brought with her a companion necklace, composed of a flock of doves, and handed me a note that read: “There is a saying: ‘One swallow doesn’t announce the spring’—so maybe one dove needs reinforcements to create a reality of peace in the Middle East. We need hope which is so much lost—I do wish you will restore it. With all my sincerest wishes, Leah.”
DAVID KARP
Speaking on Middle East peace at the National Press Club. My dove was flying, but I felt faint.
UPI
Dinner with Israeli Prime Minister Rabin, whose assassination in 1995 was a profound tragedy.
I wore the dove pin again when paying my respects to the victims of genocide in Rwanda, 1997. Peace dove and necklace, Cécile et Jeanne.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE/USIS
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE/USIS
Diplomatic negotiations often proceeded more slowly than hoped. I stocked up on turtles to signify my impatience and wore the crab when aggravated. Crab, Vertige.
In the three years that followed, I devoted more time to the Middle East than to any other region, as did President Clinton. Although I often wore the dove, I found cause—when displeased with the pace of negotiations—to substitute a turtle, a snail, or, when truly aggravated, a crab. Sadly, none of the pins proved equal to their assigned task. Today, long after Mrs. Rabin’s hope-filled gesture, the dove remains in need of reinforcements.
The frustrations of Middle East diplomacy were a constant reminder of the responsibilities that come with the job of secretary of state. I loved representing the United States but never stopped wondering how well I would measure up; thus I never stopped working. This attitude was reflected in a pin I had bought in Paris, made of gilt metal and wrought into a stylized Atlas holding up the Earth. I felt that America’s duty was not to try to do everything itself, but to foster a sense of commitment that would bring out the best in every country. My intent in wearing the pin—which I took only to the most important meetings—was to indicate to my colleagues that, collectively, we had the weight of the world on our shoulders. As a joke, my diplomatic security team made up a T-shirt that portrayed me as Atlas, a role with which I would have been uncomfortable for two reasons: First, in most early depictions, Atlas appears naked; second, his actual task in Greek mythology was not to hold up the Earth—which was considered flat—but to hold up the heavens. Although my spirit would have been willing, I am much too short for that.
other designers unknown.
two purple, black, and gold turtles, Isabel Canovas;
two purple, black, and gold turtles, Isabel Canovas;
other designers unknown.
Black and white turtle, Lea Stein;
two purple, black, and gold turtles, Isabel Canovas;
two purple, black, and gold turtles, Isabel Canovas;
other designers unknown.
Green and red balloons, Swarovski.
As more people began to comment on my pins, I naturally found myself growing self-conscious. In the morning or even the night before, I started thinking about the right pin for the coming day and sometimes for each meeting. I didn’t have much leisure for planning trips abroad, so often I just scooped up a handful of pieces from my jewelry box in hopes of finding an appropriate choice when the moment arrived. Some pins were essentially mood pieces, to indicate whether events were going poorly or well. When feeling good, I often wore a ladybug pin, because who doesn’t love a ladybug? A second preference was my hot-air balloons, which I interpreted to mean high hopes, not overheated rhetoric. Other pins were aimed at conjuring up the quality needed to make a negotiation succeed, such as a tranquil swan or a wise owl. Less imaginatively, when discussing the salmon industry with my Canadian colleagues, I wore a pin shaped like a fish.
Wise owl, Lea Stein.
Fish, Nettie Rosenstein;
small ladybug, reproduction, The Metropolitan Museum of Art; large ladybug, designer unknown;
swans, Swarovski.
ASSOCIATED PRESS
In 1998, terrorists bombed the U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. Before flying across the Atlantic to honor those who were killed, I made brief remarks at Andrews Air Force Base. With sadness in my heart, I turned for help to an angel. Angel, designer unknown.
ASSOCIATED PRESS
David Yurman created this American flag pin in support of families affected by 9/11.
Sunburst, Hervé van der Straeten.
Because I am by nature a worried optimist (as opposed to a contented pessimist), I found many opportunities to wear my brooch of a brilliantly shining sun. Of course, part of being a diplomat is to make the best of a difficult situation, so I sometimes wore the sun more as an expression of hope than of expectation. In Haiti, for example, the Clinton administration had used force to oust an illegitimate military junta and restore the elected president. On every visit thereafter, I met with the civilian leaders, voiced America’s desire to help, and talked about the prospects for progress. Each evening, as I put away the sun, I feared that neither my words of hope nor my effort to suggest the start of a new day would be enough to transform a desperate reality. The Haitian people—anxious and impoverished—deserve a far better government than they have had.
Naturally, not every diplomatic encounter demands a sunny attitude. If I wanted to deliver a sharp message, I often wore a bee. Muhammad Ali used to boast that he would “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” my message was that America would try to resolve every controversy peacefully, but if pushed into a corner, we had both the will and a way to strike back.
COURTESY OF WILLIAM J. CLINTON PRESIDENTIAL LIBRARY/SHARON FARMER
With Marine One in the background, President Clinton by my side, and the sun on my shoulder. Latin America, 1999.
All this, I subsequently found, was generating not only diplomatic sparks but also an economic jump start for the costume jewelry industry. In Paris, I went into the gallery where Leah Rabin had bought her dove and was startled to find my picture on the wall. Visiting an antique jewelry store in New York, I was thanked by the owner for saving her business. A group in the Northeast set up a pin watch over the Internet where they would find out what I was wearing each day and try to interpret my choice.
Yasser Arafat and I conferring by phone with President Clinton. I spent many hours wrangling with the Palestinian leader about the need for compromise in the Middle East. My pin reflected my mood. Bee, designer unknown.
REUTERS
Feature articles appeared in the foreign and domestic press, and—to my embarrassment—total strangers began walking up and trying to give me pins.
One instance in particular bears recounting. On July 4, 2000, I was privileged to stand on the steps of the home of Thomas Jefferson, the first secretary of state, to witness hundreds of people take their oath of allegiance as new citizens of the United States. A naturalized citizen myself, I was moved by the ceremony and astonished, as always, by the remarkable diversity in background of the American people. Appropriately, attendees were given small American flags to wave, but at the accompanying reception my attention was drawn to a more dramatic version of the flag. Two elegant Virginia ladies, Julann Griffin and her sister, Maureen, were introduced to me, the former wearing a jumbo star-spangled U.S. flag brooch. When I complimented Julann, she offered me the pin. I had to say no but later accepted when she repeated her kind gesture after I left office. That was when Mrs. Griffin informed me that the brooch had originally been a gift from her ex-husband, the one and only Merv Griffin, who credited her with thinking up the game show Jeopardy. For me ever since, the question “What is Monticello?” has been linked to “The place where I got my fantastic pin.”
Throughout my life with brooches, there has been one overriding challenge: how to wear them.
I long ago stopped wearing long necklaces, because they bounced around. I never liked the appearance of pins on lapels, especially on me. Pins on coats did not suit me either. I always prefe
rred to wear brooches on the left side, thinking they looked better there, but the larger ones got in the way when I carried a purse with a strap. Smaller pins gradually appealed less because I had grown accustomed to what one reviewer of my books referred to as my “big honker brooches.”
My Monticello flag, Butler & Wilson.
Hats, like jewelry, can be expressive. I spent my teenage years in Colorado and developed a fondness for Stetsons. I rekindled this affection when traveling as secretary of state, both because I liked the look and because I had more bad hair days than I could count. Cowgirl hat, Ultra Craft.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE
I like to arrange my bees and flower in different ways. One evening, while sitting with Aga Khan at a State Department dinner on cultural diplomacy, I had the bees in an ascending line.
Read My Pins: Stories from a Diplomat's Jewel Box Page 4
