Art Heals: Slippers

Depending upon where you live, I imagine many of you are, like me, still staying at home most of the time.  By now, many of us have chosen a default position when it comes to garments, and footwear. (We are not talking about the default position called supine-on-couch.)  Having grown up with a German mother for whom cleanliness was not next to godliness but rather somewhere considerably more altitudinal, I was used to taking off my shoes before entering the house.  Things changed when I entered high school. Tiring of being the shortest person in any class, I discovered high heels (well, kitten heels).  I rode my bicycle to school in those heels, truly resented my gym teacher for making me take them off and pranced around my room as a living sociological meme (see: Erving Goffman, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life). “Les chaussures, c’est moi.”  Much later, I moved to Thailand, where negative cultural associations with shoes obliged everyone to leave them outside the entrance of homes, shops, temples; practically everywhere.  (Mind you, this did nothing to alleviate social status via expensive footwear—on the contrary, everyone studied the labels on the insole of every shoe parked in front of the hostess’s front door.)  But because it was hot, and silky teak floors were the rule, bare, well-pedicured feet or, for men, really nice socks (no holes) took the place of any indoor footwear.  Back in the USA, I returned to my shoe obsession (thank you DSW), and rarely took them off before bed. 

Enter the altered state of consciousness I call Covid-brain.   While my mental health demands that I put on real clothes every day (things with buttons and zippers), I can’t bear to put on shoes. Shoes make me sad—they make me want to go outside and hear the clip-clop of my high heels purposefully prancing around some museum or shop or reception, sitting down to cross my legs and admire the sculptural shape and pattern of uppers and spikes. So, slippers.  And, thanks to Covid-brain, when I stare at something long enough, “hello, fuzzy feet” (see ref. supine-on-couch), I want to get to the (dusty) bottom of it.  10,000 years ago, some frigid-toed fashionista wore a platform slipper made from woven sagebrush bark (ecology, anyone).  Around 3000 BCE chic Sumerians wore slippers made from animal skins.  Phoenicians introduced design, from red dyes, perfumed leather and bling.  “Babouche” slippers were worn by Arab nomads, and later became the preferred shoe in the Arab world, as the slip-on style made it easier to shed them before praying.  From ancient Rome to modern day Japan, slippers became the polite way to cover unsightly feet indoors.  16th century traders brought the idea, and most importantly, the embellishments to Europe, Spanish and Italian crafters took over and the fancy slipper became the chosen footwear of the aristocracy.  And of course, the bourgeoisie was soon to follow (early knockoffs?).  So-called evening slippers in embroidered velvet became a thing among men-of-leisure after being introduced by that fashion-plate Prince Albert (hubby of Queen Vicky). Now, pink puffs, glass slippers, Uggs (Australians never wear them outdoors), variety for every taste and fantasy.

My slippers are developing a hole in the sole.  The same hole in my soul from this locked down, shoeless world I inhabit at the moment.

Here are some blinged-out traditional slippers from Tunisia, and some handmade ones in Venice, luxury goods provider to the world in the bad old days. Works of art, both.  Art Heals.