With Carol Moseley Braun's departure Thursday from the race for the Democratic presidential nomination, the campaign landscape has faded into a blur of gray, navy and black worsted wool. From the moment she launched her candidacy last year, Braun fashioned herself as the lady in red. Though there is photographic evidence that proves Braun occasionally wore other colors--black, blue, even lilac--she typically dressed in a bracing shade of red when addressing prospective voters.

As a former U.S. senator from Illinois and ambassador to New Zealand, Braun is well-versed in the expected attire of the female politician. She knows that a jacket with a subtle shoulder pad provides a nice line. A skirt of a certain length won't ride up to embarrassing heights. Red is flattering in photographs. Knits don't wrinkle when they're rolled into a suitcase. And though there is no excuse for gold buttons on a jacket--unless one has a little buddy named Gilligan--they do have a way of standing out in a photograph so that a dark suit does not look flat and bland.

Braun, who was the first black woman elected to the Senate, almost always looked polished and professional while she was campaigning for president. Only rarely did she wear something that one might call distracting. She did not look particularly well turned out for a recent NPR debate. But none of the candidates did. They were dressed for radio, apparently having forgotten that no matter the forum, there will always be a photograph for the history books. Braun wore a long black jacket with double rows of white embroidered flowers-- a decorative flourish better suited for a pair of French doors than someone who aspires to be commander in chief. She wore a similar suit Thursday, although slightly less ornate.

Typically, however, Braun's attire never strayed far from the regulation Washington uniform. Wearing red is, for female politicians, the standard visual declaration of patriotism and power. But for Braun and her long-shot, tenacious candidacy, her selection of fire-engine, cherry and tomato red also seemed to underscore her steely optimism that with dedication and self-confidence, all things are possible. Braun always seemed to be smiling, pleasant, cheerful and certain that she had made the right decision in jumping into the competition.

For most public appearances, Braun wore a skirt and jacket with a pair of sensible heels. She never dug into the full fashion arsenal that is available to women and that allows them to be eloquent even in silence. She did not engage in the politics of fashion by slipping into a pair of power heels. There is no evidence that during her campaign she ever wore a simple dress--a garment that announces femininity and makes little mention of power or authority. Indeed, a dress is more likely to suggest sex appeal or girlishness before anything else. She wore trousers infrequently. Braun never made a discernible statement with her clothes, other than to say that she is an experienced politician.

It's surprising that Braun so fully gave in to the unwritten rules for female politicians. When she was in the Senate, she, along with Sen. Barbara Mikulski (D-Md.), were the prime instigators in tearing down the antiquated rules forbidding women from wearing trousers on the Senate floor. In 1993, the two wore pants onto the floor. Soon after, female support staff followed, until the dress code was amended.

A silly rule was struck down and one of the prime symbols of gender inequity was removed.

But gender--and race--was what distinguished Braun's candidacy. In all of those group photographs before and after debates, Braun, as the only female candidate, naturally stands out. In her bright red suit, she is a beacon of womanhood. At times, one couldn't help but acknowledge her as a picture-perfect example of decorum, patriotism, charm. She would sit on stage with her legs crossed at the ankles, her posture impeccable. Her hands would be gracefully folded on her lap and a polite smile was permanently etched on her face. She could look so self-consciously ladylike--like the kind of woman who would still have a use for "tomboy" in her vocabulary.

One wishes that at some point during her candidacy, Braun would have awakened that rebel who brazenly wore pants onto the Senate floor. But Braun's quixotic campaign was little more than a symbol. And though she played by the rules, another woman might yet have the opportunity to come along and break them.