Stitches in Time IV: The Maud Frizon Evening Pumps

My Right Foot

One morning in the fall of 1981, I received a call from my fiancé, now my wife of 33 years. She was at a photographer’s studio engaged in a fashion shoot for Town & Country magazine, where she was an editor. “What size shoe do you wear?” she asked, and I replied “Eight and a half.”

“Great." she responded, "Get down here as fast as you can.” 

It was good news, since I was struggling with ad copy I had to produce as part of a test to see if I had what it took to be a copywriter.

Either the male “foot model” hadn’t shown or he had the wrong size foot, or various men's evening pump designers had sent over the wrong size. When I arrived at the studio – I no longer recall the name of the photographer – I was quickly dressed in tuxedo trousers, red socks, and size 8.5 black "alligator" evening pumps.

The female foot model was already in place and my job became holding on to her in various poses, while the camera was aimed at our lower legs and adorned feet. My fiancé was present for the entire shoot, which took a couple of hours while I had to hold on to the model who I recall as being quite attractive above the shins as well as below. It was a lot more fun than writing ad copy about Dunlop tennis racquets.

When the shoot was over, my fiance’s boss decided that the appropriate compensation for my trouble was the pair of pumps and dinner for two at Mr. Chow’s on 57^th Street.

The photo shown above appeared in the magazine some months later.

The pumps actually did not fit all that well, so I had to use inserts so that they didn’t flop around too much. But, with the metallic strip at the heel, they certainly stood out; I still occasionally wear them, although I’m no longer called on to wear evening clothes as often as I’d like.

It turned out to be my only modeling gig. The copywriting people, by the way, told me to forget about it; in retrospect, they couldn't have been more wrong.

We've never been back to Mr. Chow’s.

Stitches in Time III: Twice Prada

Even those who know me well will be surprised to learn that I have not one but two pair of Prada shoes. I’m not really a Prada kind of guy – and don’t possess a Prada type body for their clothes; however, when it comes to shoes, I can be seduced by the most unlikely soles.

Just past the turn of the century, I bought both pair on a whim, and also on sale at Prada’s Fifth Avenue shop while on a lunchtime stroll from my nearby office. It was a particularly tumultuous time in my corporate career, which is saying something, since I worked at a famously tumultuous company that was always merging, acquiring, or being acquired. Plus, we spent far more time competing internally for favor, jobs, budget money, and, well, just because that’s who we were.

I had eyed the shoes for a while on previous strolls, but could not get over the whopping list price for one pair. The idea of having Prada shoes appealed mostly because, well, they were beautiful, and partly due to having new, young dynamic boss. I was one of the rare survivors from an old “regime” and the oldest by far.

Having a pair of Prada shoes seemed like just the right touch. The brand said that I was a little more contemporary, but the cap-toe style, especially the more rigid black pair, denoted a serious side. Corporate with a bit of an edge, so to speak, and a far cry from my buttoned-down bow tie days.

But, which ones should I get, black or brown? The brown, with its glove-like leather, was far less structured, and had a note of sprezzatura* about them. Plus, they had the hip red mark on the heel. The black ones were shiny-stiff, close to being patent leather. Both had rubber soles and a very flat heel.

In the end, I bought two for the price of one. I distinctly remember the look of surprise on my wife’s, the DG's, face in our old kitchen when I returned home that evening. I don’t recall her being impressed with the “on sale” argument.

As with some relationships that we simply cannot say no to, this shoe affair was mixed at best. I still love the idea of having these shoes a dozen or so years after purchase. It’s the reality of wearing them that hurts. “Literally,” as my youngest daughter would say.

The browns have practically no arch support and require inserts that make the right one fit too snugly. The black are still stiff and hurt after a couple of hours of even modest walking. With both, I get back pain. They are like those marvelous Italian sports cars of the 60s with beautiful lines and sweet purrs, which spent most of the time in the shop, instead of on the road.

Still, these are handcrafted works of great beauty. I often admire them while contemplating a day with them on my feet, and might even put them on before abandoning the idea of walking around the city in them as being totally impractical.

One day, maybe I’ll send them to Miuccia Prada’s fellow countrywoman Paolo Antonelli, Design Curator at MOMA.But, not yet. My head tells me not to ever wear them again, but my heart can’t quite let them out of my life.

*formally, a studied carelessness, but practically speaking it's a way Italian men have of dressing as if they weren't paying attention: Stripes with stripes, jeans and blazers, shorts with ties, and still looking great. Granted, it helps to actually be Italian.