And it proliferates. We’ve spent the last four weeks poring over different fabrication techniques, the hem lengths, the coifs, the lip colors, the science behind selecting a color scheme for a collection, the secret messages sent between houses to help build what we later call The Trends, and the way in which some silhouettes may compliment a body successfully while others remain reserved for the lanky women who model them. Yes — the ones who unwittingly declare their own sense of proprietorship, diminishing the seedless faith in making them ours.
But where size really doesn’t matter and we can really let our imaginations run wild, free, and completely devoid of the constraints that may hold us back north of our ankles, the conversation always seems a bit niggardly. It’s just, why?
For those of us who can’t afford runway clothing, if there’s a will, there is almost always a way to find yourself capable of dominion when it comes to runway footwear. Just last Saturday, my friend found a pair of Celine tuxedo loafers that she’d wanted since she saw them on a runway three seasons ago for $170 at Loehmann’s. It’s not cheap per se, but relatively speaking and compared to its original $890, it’s a deal worth celebrating.
But after carefully re-considering the shoe-spoils of the Spring/Summer season, the results are fairly underwhelming. Especially considering how fantastical, escapist and downright worth-saving-up-for they usually seem to be.
Don’t get me wrong, Dolce and Gabbana may have shown a gilded garden that doubles as a shoe (again), Prada made clear that should Michael Phelps find himself gay one day soon, her bejeweled, aquatic heels would look great with his skin stone and Rochas has literally taken a feathered-step forward pro Sesame Street couture. But other than a computable selection of shoes, where’s the mystery and romance that makes fashion worth watching?
Ah, yes, in the clothes. It’s in the clothes. And if the clothes are functioning as the magical enigma, I guess the shoes are just simply…the accessory – the thing you buy, you wear, you wear again and you continue to wear until you’re not tired, but physically incapable of using them any longer. At a certain point those heel tips become metal bolts and then what?
OR! Could it be that for the first in a long time, designers are alluding to the notion that maybe we don’t need to escape anymore. Instead of feeding a void that may not actually even be responding to a special blazon of hunger, they could be telling us that we just need our shoes to compliment who we are, not who we want to be.
Yeah, I’m going to go with that one and maybe buy a pair of white pumps.
Thoughts, projections, rebuttals welcome.