Spanish researcher Ana Velasco Molpeceres, in her essay-book Fashion and Politics: The Appearances of Power, argues that neutral clothing does not exist in politics. Every detail becomes a statement. This is especially true today, when politicians live under constant camera scrutiny and every photograph is instantly turned into a meme, a symbol, or an element of personal branding.

For Donald Trump, that element is the red tie. For Sergey Lavrov, it is a sweater with “USSR” written across it. For Emmanuel Macron, it is European “Top Gun” aviator glasses. For Nikol Pashinyan, headwear has become the viral wardrobe signature. But political drip is a dangerous game—especially when played by someone whose felt hat appears more charismatic than its owner.

Trump’s red tie and the “alpha male” aesthetic

Donald Trump is almost genius-level when it comes to visual politics. His bright red tie has long functioned as a standalone political symbol. It works on several levels at once. Red is associated with aggression, energy, dominance. But more importantly, Trump deliberately breaks classical menswear rules. His tie is often too long, slightly exaggerated, even bordering on caricature.

Yet that is precisely the point. Trump does not try to look “perfect.” He constructs an image of a man so self-assured that he can afford to break rules. This deliberate excess aligns perfectly with his behavior, rhetoric, and public persona. As a result, the accessory becomes part of his political character.

The USSR sweater and the Lavrov effect

If Trump spent years building a visual code, Sergey Lavrov created a viral moment with a single sweater.

When Russia’s foreign minister appeared at a Russia–US leaders’ meeting wearing a white sweater with the word “USSR,” the images spread instantly across media. Sales of similar sweaters surged within hours.

Lavrov later explained the choice simply: “I was born in the Soviet Union.” But by then, the sweater had already become an independent political symbol—a mix of nostalgia, assertive identity, and mild provocation.

Macron, Top Gun, and glasses as a political instrument

Emmanuel Macron operates more subtly. His style is rarely accidental, and sometimes even accessories that were never intended as fashion statements become viral elements.

That was the case with the blue Henry Jullien aviator glasses Macron wore in Davos. Formally, it began as an attempt to conceal an eye issue, but the result unexpectedly reinforced his image as a European technocrat in a Top Gun-like aesthetic.

The mirrored lenses looked so cinematic that Donald Trump even mocked them from the podium. And that meant the accessory worked perfectly: the images spread instantly, and the glasses became a bigger talking point than the forum’s economic agenda.

Maduro’s tracksuit and the viral hoodie effect

One of the strangest examples of clothing developing its own political life was Nicolás Maduro and a grey Nike Tech Fleece tracksuit.

After the Venezuelan president appeared in public wearing the outfit, images of Maduro in a grey hoodie and sweatpants went viral on social media. The ordinary tracksuit suddenly became a cultural object: it sold out in some markets, and the “dictator in Nike” look turned into internet folklore.

When US Secretary of State Marco Rubio later appeared in a nearly identical Nike Tech Fleece during a trip to Beijing, it no longer looked like coincidence, but like a deliberate visual statement—especially given Rubio’s long-standing criticism of Maduro.

The Armenian Che Guevara in the “Դուխով” cap

Nikol Pashinyan’s most recognizable image appeared long before felt hats and attempts to introduce a “political gangster” aesthetic into his wardrobe. It was the “Դուխով” cap, which became part of the so-called “Velvet Revolution” look and a local Armenian version of Che Guevara. Beard, backpack, street protests, the image of a “man of the people”…

Later, caps, hats, and eight-panel styles became so deeply embedded in Pashinyan’s visual code that they began to exist almost independently of him. The intention was likely to create the image of a “character-driven” politician—someone outside the rigid diplomatic dress code, sharper, more charismatic, more “popular.”

But here lies the central paradox of visual politics: breaking rules only works when it feels like a natural extension of personality.

Trump can wear an exaggerated red tie because his public image is built on demonstrative confidence and intentional excess. Macron can wear aviators because his style has long been constructed around the image of a modern European leader.

With Pashinyan, however, this visual construct sometimes clashes with the political persona itself. At times it feels as if the prime minister is trying to build an aesthetic somewhere between The Godfather and Peaky Blinders, while the clearest impression that emerges through all this political drip is Brezhnev or Gorbachev—and it sometimes feels like the felt hat is working harder than its wearer.

What is most striking is that even the most controversial or meme-like political looks of other leaders still appear expensive, polished, and intentional. Trump with his oversized red tie, Lavrov in the USSR sweater, Macron in Top Gun glasses, even Maduro in a grey hoodie after his arrest—all of them look like they understand exactly what they are trying to project.

With Pashinyan, even coats and suits often look as if their sole purpose is to urgently add authority that the image itself lacks. Instead of a charismatic political “bad guy,” the result too often resembles a collective farm chairman in an ill-fitting suit.

And suits, too, often seem designed at any cost to add “weight” and “status.” But instead of the image of a confident Western political heavyweight, it frequently creates the impression of someone trying very hard to perform status. And perhaps this is the central problem of visual politics: clothing never works independently of the person. It either amplifies charisma—or turns into a comic, caricature-like costume that only highlights the fragility of the image beneath it.