Where Are the Shoes of Yesteryear*

Valerie says:

Where are the shoes of yesteryear*? (At least, where are mine and Jean's?)

I'm a practical person with a small closet, so most of the time I'm able to give my old shoes away. They've served me well, I've worn them to death (or in the rain or snow, which often amounts to the same thing), and I send them off with pomp and ceremony, like heroic dead Vikings sailing off to the next world in splendid ships.










But there are a small number that I just can't bear to part with. I know you know what I'm talking about. You may say to yourself 'after I have bunion surgery', or 'when my [grand]daughter is old enough', or perhaps 'when I find a really good shoe maker who can reproduce them in a triple E'. Maybe you think you'll sell them (only to the right person, of course). But whatever your rationalization (because that's what it is), you can't let go of this or that one the way you did all the others. These share closet space with the shoes you use, and the shoes you use resent these shoes with a sense of entitlement. They do nothing, take up valuable space, do not earn their keep and yet are doted on. If any shoes get polished, these are the ones. Not the workhorses and loyal servants you depend on so utterly, and yet take so thoroughly for granted. None of the six shoes I'm going to eulogize have been worn for the last four years, and some have been cossetted much longer than that.

Today Jean and I would like to present some of the shoes we coddle. We'll tell you why we can't wear them, and why we can't throw them away. No doubt you know this old tale, and the song and dance that go with it. Just for the record, the first three shoes are borrowed from Workman Publishing's 365 Days of Shoes Calendar, a beautifully edited parade of more than one hundred years of A list shoes. They're not, alas, from our closets.

[Faithful readers will recognize that we have touched on the loved-and-lost shoe issue before. For our previous comments on the great shoe conundrum, see Shoe Kaddish, dated September 1, 2009.]

This is one of the first pairs of shoes I ever bought. I got them in Siena, Italy when I was 20 and platform shoes were all the rage. These platforms are made of wood. European women who went through WWII couldn't wait to toss their wooden shoes. (Leather was rationed for soldiers, I think.) Those of us who never had to wear them, wanted to, of course. The labels fell out long ago, so I have no idea who made them. The first time I wore them, it must have taken me 10 minutes to walk down a single flight of stairs while I accustomed myself to the height and the loss of communication with the ground beneath me. I continue to love everything about them - the wooden soles, red leather, oxford hole punching, mary jane t strap. I'd wear them today if I could, but they're an 8.5, and I'm now a 9.5. I love thinking that they could be reproduced with a shock absorbent rubber bottom.

I am drawn to red shoes. The first pair I ever bought were red oxford Fred Braun flats, which I bought on West 8th Street with babysitting money when I was fifteen. I ruined them in the rain about three years later, and still carry a torch for them. I bought this pair at a second hand store in the early 90s, but they're from the 40s, labeled Shari Creation Hand Crafted. They have little marcasites inset into the leather. They're too narrow for my feet now (I have neuromas on both feet that need to stretch out), the toe box is too low, and I can't wear heels because they pressure the neuromas.

This is the most expensive shoe I ever bought, and I can't wear it anymore. The label says Creazioni Attica, made in Italy. I won't tell you what I paid for them, but I justified the expense because it's three toned blue suede, moving from dark to light between the toe and heel. I took a dozen photos, none of which do it justice. I've never seen anything like it before or since. (Later I bought its twin in an orange that faded to pale yellow.) At first they fit fine, then they fit fine with a pad at the toe, then they pinched my neuromas regardless of what I did. Just because a shoe is flat doesn't mean I can wear it. SIGH.

I got these wonderful orange suede Manolo Blahniks at the $1 flea market on West 26th Street in New York, which space has now been transformed into one of the hundreds of boxy luxury apartment buildings that everyone in the city had been desperately clamoring for. Aren't the wicked little tongues fabulous? They're wired, and somewhat flexible. But now they're too pointy for me, and the heels are too high. It's not a matter of mere discomfort to wear them, since what woman wouldn't suffer for her art? It's a matter of burning pain.

I was devastated when I could no longer wear these flat Charles Jourdan shoes, which I found at a thrift shop. They are SO Bauhaus, and so playful. Bauhaus extolled geometry, and showcased colors. You can see those principles applied here. The tongue of the shoe is rectangular; the heel is round. As with other shoes, the narrow sides and low toe box pinch my nerves, so I periodically look, but don't touch.

I thought I'd throw in a boot for good measure. With a blue Perry Ellis dirndl skirt I used to have (once a tad big on me; at last wearing more than a tad small), I felt marvelous wearing these Pollini Italian boots. They look as though they have a platform, but in fact the designer just added piping, both to disguise a seam and to add contrast and dimension. A wonderful touch. The bright checks remind me of medieval heraldic designs. These were also from a thrift shop. In the lining is the number 38.5. Now I don't feel comfortable in anything less than a size 40.

Jean says:
Because we spend a lot of time together at events such as openings and shows (art, crafts, antiques, vintage clothing and jewelry) which involve a fair amount of standing around, invariably the discussion turns to shoes and our aching feet, if not at the event, then on our way home. When Valerie first suggested this topic several months ago, I was thrilled and aghast. While I tend to hang onto things I love for much longer than necessary, being able to put my finger on a specific piece of clothing is challenging, to say the least. Saint Valerie continued to raise this topic periodically (the old bamboo under the fingernails approach, or as I like to think of it, the death by a thousand cuts!). [Valerie adds: It's true! Anyone would have thought I'd invited her out for a day of mammograms the way she reacted!]

So, after about the 90th not so subtle hint, I started to seriously hunt down some of my favorite shoes that I no longer wear, and, as luck would have it, recently excavated a box from 1982 that contained some '80s and some '70s goodies. From that treasure trove and the top of my closet, I chose a representative sample of shoes from each of four past decades - the '70s, '80s, '90s and '00s. I do hope you'll find this entertaining and will share your thoughts and photos of your favorite footwear you no longer wear. (Photographic credits: Vintage black and white Auntie Maud Frizon in previous paragraph from the 365 Days of Shoes Calendar; just above from Helene Verin's book, Beth Levine Shoes. We can't wear backless shoes anymore either.)


1970s
As a card-carrying hoarder of the first order, I can attest that the accumulated detritus of my life are not just "things". Rather, they are "memories". Take for example this black patent leather platform mary jane purchased in London in 1972. Even though only one of the deuce is known to survive, I somehow cannot part with it. Besides being an interesting objet, the shoe conjures up a whole trunkful of memories of my first trip to London in October 1972.

At that time, the British Invasion had long since taken over the US airwaves. London was "swinging," girls were "birds," Mary Quant was designing sky-high mini dresses, and Biba was my emporium of choice for clothes, accessories, and most of all makeup! The dollar was king and the exchange rate with the British pound was obscene. Clothing was incredibly cheap.

After I had checked out the King Tut exhibit at the British Museum and cruised the Tate and the Victoria and Albert Museums, I headed straight to the Biba store on Kensington High Street, with its (to quote Wikipedia) "Art Nouveau decor and rock and roll decadence." I purchased these shoes, inexplicably called Mary Poppins. I loved them. They made me feel tall and willowy, like Jean Shrimpton, and mod, like Twiggy.

Even if I still had its mate, I could no longer wear them. High altitude gives me nosebleeds. However, I will continue to keep the solo shoe as a memento mori. Rather than haunt me, it cheers me.


1980s
These shoes have a history. In the early '80s, I had moved from Soho to the West Village to a loft in Chelsea. Nightlife was a regular Disco Inferno. My friends and I used to hit all the clubs. Although the Flamingo had closed by this time, The Ritz, Studio 54 and The Saint were the hot places to see and be seen. One evening, I wore these black suede lace-up high heels with a black leather bustier, a black midi-skirt, a black wool shawl (from Steve Soho) draped across my shoulders and big black sunglasses to Limelight, a club in a de-sanctified church on Sixth Avenue. My hair was cut short, dyed jet black and slicked back with product. As I descended the staircase to the dance floor, an extremely well-dressed gentleman approached me. Looking me up and down, he said "Oh, yes", handed me a black plastic card the size of a credit card with the Limelight name and logo on it and then said "This card will get you into this club for free. For life." I still have the card - and the shoes.


1990s
Into the '90s, I was still indulging my love of platforms. I think I purchased these shoes in 1994. This particular pair of black suede open-toed cork platforms are Alfies Original Souliers, from the recently closed Anbar Shoe Store on Reade Street in lower Manhattan (may it rest in peace). That store was the mecca for bargain-minded shoe-aholics. Everything was displayed by color, so all the red shoes were on one rack, the navy on another, etc. Brands ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, from designers like Walter Steiger, Robert Clergerie, Valentino, Versace and Armani to DKNY and Nine West -- all at deep discounts. Although it was hit-or-miss, if you timed it right, everything you liked came in your size.

I actually wore these shoes a lot, even to a "business casual" meeting in a Boston hotel that summer. By the 1990s, my wardrobe had already morphed to include lots of black, so they went with everything. They are in great condition nearly 16 years later, but these days, I think of them as "a sprain waiting to happen." So, they continue to roost in the rafters of my closet like great nesting birds.


2000s

I bought these black and cream platform slingbacks at the John Fluevog store on the corner of Prince and Mulberry Streets sometime just after the beginning of the new millenium. At the time, Akiro's Siren Hair Salon was on Mulberry Street, just north of Spring Street, so I passed the shoe store about once a month on my way home from my haircut. These shoes spoke to me, and luckily, they were on sale. I loved their retro look and their logo ("Don't give me no lip service"). Alas, now they make the balls of my feet scream no matter how many different types of gel or foam insoles I try. They are in such pristine condition, they do haunt me.

The store is still there. Valerie and I wandered by it today on our way to photograph the wonderful graffitti paintings on the walls of the now-closed Kitchen Club and Chibi Bar. (A moment of silence, please, for the passing of a fabulous restaurant and meeting place.)


Bottom Line
As I am writing this, I realize that, unlike Valerie's wide-ranging selections of footwear, the recurring theme in my selections is the platform. I would actually wear these fabulous blue platforms (courtesty of http:www.vintage-heels.co.uk) if it were physically possible. I attribute this obsession not only to the fact that I am 5'4" tall and love to appear taller, but also to my childhood. When I was really young and loved to play dress up, a neighbor who was all of about 4'8" tall gave my mother 3 or 4 pairs of her tiny platform slingbacks for me to play in. So, while others were imagining themselves as Cinderella, I must have been channeling my inner Gloria Swanson (whose own shoe size was about a 4 or 5). Mrs. Culbreath, if you're listening, I want you to know how much I loved your shoes. They were truly magic. Thank you!


Valerie says:
Recently I attended a lecture on Beth Levine, the first female shoe designer, given by Helene Verin, who has written a book on Ms. Levine and her numerous breakthroughs in the industry (see the earlier link). Verin says that Levine invented the stiletto heel, but she also designed the wonderfully inventive flat racing car shoe shown here. During the question and answer period after the lecture, I asked her why comfortable shoes for women of a certain age only seemed to come in the form of sneakers. Why couldn't someone at the very least make a sneaker body and then put black velvet on it, I asked. Ms. Verin summed it up succinctly by saying that all the current designers (with a few exceptions like Taryn Rose) are men. But, I persisted, with the Women of a Certain Age demographic possessing a large discretionary income, why wouldn't designers aim for that income? (After all, dentists make dentures, not just white veneers; Levi's makes 'relaxed fit' jeans, which is a discreet way of saying 'toneless muscle fit'. We are a niche market waiting to be exploited - I mean catered to - and there isn't any reason wonderful shoe styles can't be modified to suit our needs. Ms. Verin didn't seem to have an answer, which leaves me puzzled. What kind of capitalist society is this, anyway, where a perfectly good opportunity can go begging?

Jean and I have quite enjoyed looking at the current crop of very high heeled shoes. We know we can't wear them, but we appreciate well made shoes and creative designs, so we don't begrudge the designers or the wearers. Having said that, however, there really is a wearability factor in question in a number of the shoes out there. Case in point: These jeweled Armadillo shoes by the late, great Alexander McQueen resemble sculpture or exotic torture devices more than shoes for mortal women. They reportedly sport 12" heels. We've both seen our fair share of women who look quite out of their league when trying to negotiate streets with these very challenging structures on their feet. But in fact, how can any of us amateurs - mere retail buyers - be expected to walk the literal walk when even the masters - models who get paid to sashay down runways and who actually get coached in the sashaying arts - take spills in the four inch heels? Have a look at the video below, which depicts what one might call the Model Toddle. Doesn't this tell you that something's gotta give?


http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/02/17/models-falling-on-the-run_n_466237.html

JOIN IN THE FUN AND THE GROUSING! SEND US PICTURES OF THE SHOES YOU LOVE BUT CAN NO LONGER WEAR, FOR A FUTURE POSTING.

OR SEND US PICTURES OF THE SHOES YOU ARE MAKING DO WITH, ALSO FOR A FUTURE POSTING. STUCK WEARING SNEAKERS? OR WEARING SNEAKERS YOU'VE RETROFITTED TO PASS FOR SHOES? SHARE YOUR PHOTOS WITH US!



Let's go out with a bang. Another one we can't wear but gee, ain't it grand? (Ferragamo)

*With apologies to Francois Villon.

Jeepers Creepers, Where'd Ya Get Those Peepers?

Jean says:

I love wearing glasses! However, recently, after "blind as a bat" became more than a just a funny phrase, I finally broke down and got an eye exam. Considering that it had been more than five years since my last one (where does the time go?), I guess it's no surprise that my prescription had changed a lot. The need for new lenses, combined with my Flexible Spending Accounts' looming deadline, prompted my recent search for new frames.

Certain women are instantly recognizable by their glasses, like Edith Head, one of Hollywood's most famous costume designers. Edith was known for her black round frames.



Another case in point is Lina Wertmuller, Italian film director who started out as an assistant director on Federico Fellini's 8 1/2 and went on to direct Swept Away and Seven Beauties. Lina was known for her stark white rectangular frames.

Without my glasses, I'm like Mr. Magoo, so it is challenging to try on new frames because it is so hard to know what you really look like. Leave it to Valerie to find the solution to the age-old dilemma of trying to visualize yourself in frames without the benefit of prescription lenses! Valerie just took my picture in each pair of frames I tried on, then I'd don my prescription glasses to inspect how I looked - by viewing the screen of her digital camera. Eureka! Fin de problem.

Glasses are a lot like hats. What looks great on one woman may just look simply ordinary (or hysterical) on another. You have to be adventurous. And yet, one must also practical: An important consideration in selecting glasses is not just how they look, but also how they feel, especially if, like me, you have them sitting on your face for 18 hours a day. On two recent weekends, we hit several stores and optical shops in Soho and the East Village. We thought it would be fun to share some of the more and less successful experiments with you. The photos that made the final cut are from Ilori on Spring Street and Prada on Broadway at Prince Street in Soho and Avenue A Optical at 43 Avenue A in the East Village. Let the games begin:

The pair of La Perla frames I am wearing has black lace embedded in the temples. Ooh la la.





Imagine our surprise to learn that La Perla, the company known for its fabulously sexy lingerie line, now also produces eyeglasses. So THAT'S what they do with all the little left over bits!






Meow! I've always had a soft spot in my heart for cat eye frames. (Frames by jewelery designer Loree Rodkin.)










[Valerie sez: Here's Jean doing her best Karl Lagerfeld.]








[And look! Just add a little static electricity to the hair, and we could get Jean bookings as an Andy Warhol impersonator! (Clear frames by Geek.)]








Geometric shapes are also hot.

Round glasses have been and always will be the purview of the following:

architect Philip Johnson,







fashion editor Carrie Donovan and






fashion icon Iris Apfel.










Perhaps I should just leave the round glasses to them and to Harry Potter. (Frames by Geek.)







Rectangular frames are also very popular shapes, in all sorts of color combinations.

Black and orange frames are by Donna Karan.







The turquoise blue temples on these are standouts.







These rectangular frames by East Village designer Moss Lipow have a groovy tilt. The texture of the frame feels like bakelite.






The white edging inside the black frame is quite fetching.







The gold bubbles on the temples remind me of champagne bubbles.








The animal kingdom is another rich source of inspiration.


Giraffe print heart-shaped cat eyes combined too many of my favorite themes for my puny brain to rationally ponder. (Alas, vintage giraffe frames are for display only.)






These zebra prints probably looked better on their original owners.







Tortoise shell (faux) frames are a look I've rocked in my time. No one from my past, however, should feel the need to step forward.







You know you're onto something when the owner of the shop is laughing uncontrollably in the background! These squared off round black frames are also by local designer, Moss Lipow.








I always liked clear frames.









I was transfixed by a Prada ad in the March issue of Vanity Fair of large, clear plexiglass tilted rectangular eyeglasses. I tore out the picture and took Valerie with me to the Soho store to track them down. Imagine my surprise and disappointment when I was informed that the glasses in the ad were "just for the press" and were not actually in production for the general public. While we were there, we both tried on the watered down version of the Prada glasses in pink! Valerie was wearing the pink piggies on her hat and necklace that were featured in last week's posting.











DANGEROUS PHOTOGRAPH DELETED!
DANGEROUS PHOTOGRAPH DELETED!
DANGEROUS PHOTOGRAPH DELETED!
DANGEROUS PHOTOGRAPH DELETED!
DANGEROUS PHOTOGRAPH DELETED!
DANGEROUS PHOTOGRAPH DELETED!
DANGEROUS PHOTOGRAPH DELETED!
DANGEROUS PHOTOGRAPH DELETED!


The co-author of this blog has determined that a photograph posing a threat to her self esteem was posted in the above space. That photograph has been removed and replaced with the two photographs below, which the co-author has approved for public consumption. [Jean says: Unfortunately, Valerie's removal of that photo, which showed her in pink glasses wearing her pink piggies necklace, also necessitated removal of a spectacular byline to this week's posting: "This little piggy went to Prada." Alas, it ended up on the proverbial cutting room floor.]

[Valerie says: sorry, folks, I just had to delete that photograph. Did you know that it is not permitted to take photographs of royals eating? Seems they just don't think they look very regal stuffing food into their mouths.They have their image to protect, after all. I like that image protection concept, so I'm taking the liberty of borrowing it here. These two photos were taken at the Pier Show, where after a day of looking at glasses with Jean I got into the spirit of the new Must Have accessory thing, trying on fabulous Claude Montana glasses (with cut out cars?, and a conveniently placed white sticker) and equally fabulous (hand carved?) snake glasses with no bridge at the nose. When we came back an hour later, the snake glasses were gone. I'm convinced the dealer has us to thank for that.]

AHEM! Back to Jean:

Jean says: As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted: "Step away from the frames, ma'am."

I have seen the future and it is bug-eyed. This next series of frames channeled my inner Palm Beach matron. It's not a look I would recommend for the non-octogenarian. (1st pair are vintage '80s Laura Biagiotti frames.)








Is anyone nostagic for those big '80s gradient lenses?






Too big, too round and too pearly white, and I'm not talking about Julia Roberts' smile.






Yes, children, the Bauhaus credo was correct. Less is more, and in some cases too much is simply too much.






The following frames fall into the category of "It seemed like a good idea at the time." (Or ISLAGIATT to the texters among you.)

Excuse me, but am I wearing these glasses or are they wearing me?






Who knew RayBans came in pearly white?









And the winner is....


No fair - Jean's peeking!...












Daniel Libeskind!


In the end, I chose these "Scimitar" frames by Moss Lipow. I really like how they felt on my face. Getting frames I love while also supporting a local artisan is like having your cake and eating it too. After my purchase, while researching this posting, I checked out Moss Lipow’s website. How can you not love somebody whose motto is: "Dandyism is the last flicker of heroism in decadent ages"? Do yourself a favor and check it out!


Bonus Celebrity in Spectacles: Peggy Guggenheim

You can have your very own pair of Peggy Guggenheim's glasses by clicking here for a link to the Guggenheim Museum Store.








And last but not least:

ETHNOGRAPHIC SILVER JEWELRY COLLECTION AT THE MUSEUM OF ARTS AND DESIGN

Click on the title above for more information and photographs, but the web info doesn't come close to doing the exhibition justice. If you're in New York City, this is a great opportunity to see traditional silver jewelry from China, India, Morocco and other countries that took silversmithing to a high art without benefit of electricity and other such helpful shortcuts.

Play with Your Clothes: Pretty in Pink Piggies

Valerie says:
Every now and then we fall in love with something that just isn’t right for us. Rather than give it up, we ask: what can I do to make it work for me? At least as far as clothes are concerned, there are lots of tricks you can do. Dyeing, taking in seams, raising hemlines, and putting decorations over holes are just some of the ways you can keep the things you love out of the storage boxes and in closets on hangers where you can use them.

On a trip to a thrift shop several years ago, I came across a perfectly good black wool sweater with rows and rows of pink piggies on it. I loved the pink piggies, but I loathed the sweater’s tight round collar. That style just doesn’t look good on me. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to give up the wacky little piggies. To add to their allure, they were priced to fly out the door, it being the end of sweater season, which sealed the deal for me. This picture gives you some idea what the sweater originally looked like even though it's now missing both arms, and has been shrunk in hot water and laundry soap.

At the time I bought the sweater, I also didn’t like that the piggies were so highly regimented. One row all facing left, the next row all facing right, as if they were doing military drills. These piggies needed to cut loose, which meant I would have to cut the sweater up and do something completely unsweaterly with them.

Because I am all thumbs - and all untrained thumbs - the very simplest solution came to me. First I had to shrink the sweater so the wool would not unravel. Then I could cut up the piggies into single squares, spray starch and iron them to stay flat, skewer each square on the world’s largest safety pin (or kilt pin, which sounds more fashionable), and then link all the pins together into a necklace.

I went to Steinlauf & Stoller, where huge safety pins cost $1 each, placed them end to end on a table to see how many pins would make a good sized necklace, and then bought a few more for good measure. (Always buy a bit extra. You never know…) It turned out I needed ten pins, so that meant eight piggies (no piggies on the top two pins at the back of the neck), and I discovered I could get all the piggies I needed using only the arms of the sweater.

After the necklace was completed, four whole piggies were left - just enough material to make cuffs from. So two of the extra pins I bought came in handy much sooner than expected.

(This reminds me of a story about Joe Kennedy and Gloria Swanson. It is said that when he bought her a luxurious bracelet, she put it on and was enraptured by the way it looked on her. Then, said she cleverly, “But I have TWO wrists!”, thereby forcing Mr. Kennedy, who had perhaps underestimated his mistress, to have a matching set made. No Kennedy for me, and no matching luxuries, but don’t you think the similarity of the inspiration is uncanny?) [Photo of Ms. Swanson in matching bracelets by Getty Images, in case you can't read the subtle print across her chin.]

I decided to wear the piggies today, but Jean and I have a reputation to live up to, and now our adoring public demands to see us in hats. I have a lot of piggies left, but this morning I had little time before our standing brunch date. (Actually, we sit. Standing date is a silly expression.) So I got out my black fleece neckwarmer (which I have always worn as a hat), found a stray pink piggie, rummaged for my collection of small safety pins (I get them when my dry cleaner pins my newly pressed pants to wire hangers – I KNEW they’d come in handy one day) and, while on the bus, pinned the singleton piggie to the hat.

I could have basted it down with black thread, but that would mean I’d eventually have to cut the stitches off if I ever wanted to put something else on the hat instead.




Plus the small echo of the huge safety pins proved too hard to resist. At left is how to manage and organize your pin collection if you have a mild case of OCD.





The irony of wearing huge safety pins long after the demise of the punk movement, and the knowledge that no real self-respecting punk would want to be seen with a woman my age in safety pins, is not lost on me. But I tell myself that when I get to the nursing home, where I might well have to start wearing safety pins on a daily basis, the nurses will love me because I won’t fight against wearing them. And if they have a contest for the best accessorized safety pins, I’ll win it every year. (That is, of course, unless I'm joined there by Jean, in which case all bets are off. See her entry on pink duckie diaper pins dated Sept. 7, 2009.)




IN MEMORIAM

ALEXANDER McQUEEN



Found this photograph on Fashionista.com several weeks ago. LOVE the leggings. LOVE the shoes, which we couldn't possibly wear. (Who could?? Notice the model is lying down.)

When will a blythe spirit of such creativity come our way again?