The decision by the International Olympic Committee to ban Russia from the 2018 Winter Games in Pyeongchang, South Korea, for widespread doping, but to allow vetted individual athletes to compete on a case-by-case basis as “Olympic athletes from Russia” has seemingly raised as many questions as it has answered. Among them: What in the world will they wear?
This may seem a ridiculous thing to ask given the bigger issues of geopolitical relations, morality and national pride, but in fact it touches on all of the above.
At the Olympics, of all places, the uniforms athletes wear function as symbols of allegiance and achievement, of years of sacrifice for sport, and the honor of patriotism and the supporters for whom they are competing. Which is why, when the I.O.C. announced its decision, it specified that Russians who do make it through to the Games would not be allowed to do so under their own flag — or their official outfits. Which, by the way, have already been made.
ZA Sport, the official Russian outfitter for the Games, unveiled Russia’s uniforms last month, and they were relatively subdued: a lot of tan with red, white and blue stripes, plus some bright red or blue knits, and scarves with a quasi-Constructivist design. At least compared with some past opening and closing ceremony outfits, which have veered wildly toward Cossack and Anna Karenina inspirations (a lotta fur) or toward the jingoistic (logo Russia!). Pointedly, however, they also included more consumer-oriented gear, like sweatshirts emblazoned with “I don’t do doping; I am ZA Sport.” They’re probably collector’s items now.
What will replace them, however, is not clear.
In the past, athletes not affiliated with a national team, whether because their country could not field one or because of political turmoil, have worn “neutral” uniforms designed by a sponsor in a monochrome color and featuring the Olympic rings — at least in formal situations like the opening and closing ceremonies. For performances like figure skating, say, competitors have individual costumes, which would not be affected by the ruling.
For the 2012 Games in London, for example, Nike designed a white multipocketed M65 jacket with a black swoosh and multicolor rings on the shoulder and a geometric-pattern scarf in Olympic shades for independent athletes from the recently dissolved Netherlands Antilles, and from South Sudan. The effect, amid all the stripes and riotous patterns, was to make them look like the sartorial equivalent of a generic pill bottle next to the branded option.
Continue reading the main storyFor the 2016 Games in Rio de Janeiro, the I.O.C. formed a Refugee Olympic Team and provided opening ceremony uniforms of blue blazers, khaki pants and a white shirt. Men also wore a white tie, women a blue neckerchief.
There was speculation that Nike would be involved again with the independent athletes in the coming Olympics, but a spokeswoman for the company noted that it was no longer an official sponsor of the I.O.C., and that it had not been approached about uniforms for Russians. (If a whole team of independent Russian hockey players were to pass the vetting process, Nike would provide the jerseys, as the sport’s official Olympic outfitter.)
The I.O.C. has not, it turns out, figured out the details of the uniforms for independents. All it has decided is that the pieces will say “Olympic Athlete From Russia” — or O.A.R.
(Potentially catchy, that.)
According to the I.O.C. media office, decisions have not been made about the company that will make the uniforms, the color of the uniform or how big the word Russia might be on them. Those decisions will fall to a working group run by Nicole Hoevertsz, a onetime synchronized swimmer from Aruba — formerly part of the Netherlands Antilles — and an I.O.C. member since 2006. The organization declined to specify a deadline for its decisions, which are, after all, fraught — potentially precedent-setting and rife with possible repercussions.
By stripping national uniforms for Russian athletes who make it past the drug checks, are you punishing the cheaters of the official state system or nominally “clean” competitors? Are you punishing those who did the right thing for the sins of those who did wrong? Or are you liberating the honest athletes from the stigma of a program that betrayed the trust of so many of their peers, and sending a signal to the world?
Maybe all of the above. Perhaps the best solution would be to create a collection that makes O.A.R.s feel special without buying into the emblematic stereotypes that so often come with the uniforms of a nation; that abstracts and globalizes identity instead of erasing it.
But to do so is to create a design challenge, not just a political one. Felipe Oliveira Baptista, creative director of Lacoste, the company that makes France’s Olympic uniforms, once told me that it had spent almost two years on the collection for the Games. Whatever company makes the O.A.R. looks will have to manufacture them practically overnight by comparison.
But then, instead of denuded, the athletes might rather feel … re-dressed.
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