The supposition is that we need different shoes for different occasions, right? Right. To feel more grandiose, special, to escape the perils of whatever is real, right again? I think so.
I made a petty resolution last year in March that I would buy no more than three pair of shoes per season–I don’t mean F/W, Pre-Fall, S/S, Resort; that would add up to a whopping 12 pair a year, which, according to my grossly adventurous taste would leave me at an approximate $12,000 non-deductible deficit. Six pair in a year is still effectively a fuck lot too but when you’re dealing with an addict (me) baby steps (well-footed, albeit) are the only way. I failed miserably in the first six months of my 10-month-old resolution but that is only because I am deeply shallow and new shoes have historically calibrated my existence. In the latter four months, I’ve improved. In doing so, I’ve also re-learned the imperial power of editing and in a human act of marginal kindness, will pass on what 2012 has taught me about taking the right leap forward. Make no mistake though, you can use your left foot, too.
First, age of the single-sole pump is so undeniably here, it’s sick. Not sick like: cough, cough, flu shot; sick like: fuck son, take me to the E.R. because I am pretty sure my pinky toe has dispatched from the rest of my foot and it is the fault of my shoes. Love is love though, and we do what we have to. Nothing looks quite as right with a pair of peg-leg ripped skinny jeans and an over-sized denim blouse than the right pump. And with spring around the far-end of the proverbial corner, there’s never been more opportune timing to indulge in something bright. (I for one, wear them often with red corduroy overalls).
Second, the other supposition is that there will come a time when we must throw in the ripped jeans and concede in the name of say, a skirt, dress…bermuda shorts? Sometimes pumps will work, but sometimes we’ll want to add dimension. Think: mini skirt, tea-length skirt, cropped pants, your birthday suit. The relationship between calf-length boots and a skirt of any variety is pretty antithetical in that it’s curiously modern and yet so reminiscent of, say, 1979.
My guess is, you’ve had it up to here (I’m pointing all my fingers above my head in a gesticulation called “Fed Up”) with my referencing the glory of Golden Goose in spite of the inexplicably high price point. Yes, the sneakers are fantastic–they coalesce the urban swag I can’t stop referencing with don’t match, don’t care: high fashion–but this isn’t even really about that (or the hidden wedge!) And even though I will take my Isabel Marant sneakers to the grave with me–no over-saturation and exploitation could deter our relationship–there’s something to be said about a vastly different, subtle sneaker that tries to convey nothing.
We’ve landed in an examining place, where what we wear comprehensively describes who we are, so why not leave a dollop of explanation to the imagination? More technically too, I am so wholly on team-white, you’d think I were a virgin. Maybe skip the Golden Goose sneakers if they’re too offensive for your pocket. White is white–there’s always Superga, there’s always Nike, there’s always Converse, there’s always me.