For six years, we lived in an exurban town north of New York City. We were there when my husband died suddenly and life as I had constructed it imploded. A year and a half later, my daughter and I moved back to the city to join my new partner in Brooklyn. Our house was large and there was too much furniture for any Brooklyn apartment we could afford. Everything went into boxes and then into storage. Among the boxes that arrived in our first shared apartment was a large wardrobe box marked: Julie Shoes.
A few months after our return to the city, Olive remarked one day, tipping her head adorably, “I’ve noticed something, Mama. In the city people have way more shoes.”
So far, I’d managed to hide my shoe problem from Olive, by quickly unpacking at least thirty pairs from that large box and stuffing them into a closet.
“Well,” I said, hoping to sound wise. “In the city people need different shoes for, you know, different things. In the country we just needed practical shoes, but here, people always want to look stylish.”
“You have a lot of shoes, Mama,” Olive continued. “And I’ve noticed that most of them are black.”
I’d been discovered.
When we lived in the country, we wore sneakers and boots. Now there was fashion to consider. In the years after our return to Brooklyn, Olive came to appreciate why one needs multiple pairs of black shoes.
Now I am back in the country. I have tried to become more practical, but I still have too many shoes, more than I need for the bi-monthly trips I make to the city. Besides, the sidewalks in my town are so treacherous that I have given in to Birkenstocks and sturdy boots.
I’ve recently completed some serious purging. I’ve been ruthless—four impossible pairs still remain yet I cannot part with them. They are beautiful objects, sculptures really, created with such care and workmanship that I admire. I think about the women who wore these in real life, how much they suffered for beauty, how I reject this idea and would no longer endure such pain, even for the length of a dinner. Actually, I think these pairs belong in a shoe museum. Does such a place exist? For now, they are my museum.
I bought these exquisite black satin pumps for my first book launch party. They are Italian, like so many beautiful things, handmade in Bologna by Bruno Magli. Even then they were too high for me, but I toughed it out for one evening. The blisters were worth it. Without the asymmetrical rectangle of faceted black jet and beading—hand-sewn—they would have been a perfectly proportioned pair. Most of Magli’s evening shoes from this era have symmetrical embellishments, but these were designed for someone who was willing to literally step out of their comfort zone. I’ve not seen another pair like this in all my time prowling at vintage stores. I thought about that when I bought them. Publishing a first book just shy of 50 felt like I was on the edge. I had no idea how to evaluate success or failure, or whether I’d ever be able to repeat this performance. Sometimes I take them out of their box to remember that night: who was there, which friends are no longer present, and the new friends who have come into my life since then. The shoes mark years of hard work and my ability to push myself. They are stronger than self-doubt.
Ce la fai, Giuli, they tell me. You can do this, Julie.
“Shoes are like theater,” said legendary shoemaker Joseph Larose. At one time I owned two LaRose pairs, both the very definition of extra. My Olive saw the pair of red suede low slip-ons I actually wore and begged me to pass them on. They suit her city life. Now I’m down to these pumps. They are like Cinderella slippers, marked size 7, but they will not accommodate my size 6 feet. Could any woman have had such a narrow instep? And yet, a woman wore them—perhaps to a springtime garden party. The front sole is scuffed. I’ve never worn them except in my house. I didn’t buy them to wear; I just wanted to look at them.
LaRose shoes date from the 1950s to the 1970s. They were purchased by celebrities and wealthy women able to travel to the designer’s stores in Florida. I wish someone would create equally flamboyant but more wearable versions for our lives today. So far, I haven’t seen them. But the dream is real.
LaRose shoes have a cult following. You might find deadstock pairs at high-end vintage stores, sometimes unworn in their original boxes. You might find a pair in your granny’s attic or even at an estate sale. Should you too become obsessed, you can find out more history and info below.
"The Joseph LaRose Shoe Collection" by Betsey Berne, Mr. Beller's Neighborhood
"LaRose Shoes: A Downtown Legend" by Glenn Emery, The Jacksonville History Center
These tan suede button Mary Janes are even older. The brand is Sorosis, made by A. E. Little & Co. in Massachusetts. To me, they look to be from the 1920s or the 1930s. If any Spider reader is a fashion history expert, I’d love to know more. The suede exterior is as soft as a baby’s skin and they fit on my feet. A few blemishes, like summer freckles. Maybe one day I’ll wear them outside. My pair looks like daywear but the company also made evening shoes with multiple straps, higher curvier heels and ornate beading. It’s still hard to imagine women going about their errands wearing these. Perhaps only more elegant shoes survive because they were pampered, while more practical, truly everyday shoes were worn to the point of destruction.
For a bit of history on this brand, here are two links.
"Brand Name from the Past: Sorosis" by Nancy Friedman, Fritinancy
A.E. Little & Co. Evening Shoes. 1916, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
Manolo Blahnik (the brand is often referred to by just his first name) is still going strong and I’ve owned a few vintage pairs. I don’t love most current versions; the heels are usually too high. I don’t care what any company promises, anything over two inches might make you look amazing but all I see is pain. I’ve kept this pair because they are so stunningly elegant and fit well. Detailed but not flashy, they are the one pair of shoes I’ve owned that my mother—she owned thirty pairs of Ferragamos—would have coveted. She would have called them ladylike. Despite her best efforts, I am not at all that, except when I put these on.
Thank you for reading and as with all posts here, I’d love to hear from you! More to follow each Friday. I hope you’ll subscribe and share with other readers. You can find out more about my memoirs Perfection and Eva and Eve here and purchase here. I work privately with writers on creative non-fiction projects. If you are interested, you can contact me through my website: juliemetz.com. A first consultation is free of charge.
Oh man, I love these shoes. I have a thing about historical shoes but, sadly, I am so clumsy that I doubt my ability to glide across any floor without sliding to the ground. I would love to find a source of stylish, 30s-40s shoes that are flat. I suspect that's just not possible. meantime, I'll enjoy your pictures.
I visited the Bata Shoe Museum in Toronto back in the 90s when my husband took me to see The Phantom. I was in heaven. I loved shoes and I could wear them because I was young. Now I’m old and constantly looking for a pair that will magically relieve my knee pain. We downsized last year and my closet shrunk, so now I am slowly parting with shoes and boots, none as glamorous as yours tho. Next it will be handbags. Loved reading!