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.
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