Sole to Soul

 

What is it about footwear that is so memorable? I still remember the sandals I wore to primary school ­­– traditional Clarks with spongy soles and a T-bar, and the silvery sparklers I paraded around in when I was crowned May Queen.

That was when shoes were fun and easy. When I got to my teens, things got woeful and complicated. All of a sudden shoes were important, shoes spoke volumes about who you were and what you were about. And the shoes I wanted to wear were decidedly not the shoes my mother wanted me to wear.

At the age of 13, all my friends were into Ben Sherman’s, tonic suits and Doc Martens. I was not allowed to have Doc Martens. I gave in on that one but then my attention turned to kitten heels. I had to have a pair of kitten heels. My life depended on it. Mum finally gave in on this one, but the pair I ended up with were from British Home Stores and therefore an embarrassment to fashion. But hey, they were my first pair of proper, grown-up women’s shoes.

As glam rock arrived in the mid-Seventies, my sole ambitions skyrocketed. It was all about platforms – the bigger and gaudier the better. I became the proud owner of a pair of purple and pink layered slingback platforms from Dolcis. My, they were spectacular. I could just about walk in them but I didn’t care. They made me stand tall in the world, quite literally.

But my platformed nemesis came in the form of a pair of elevated clogs, which slipped on – and off – my feet with alarming regularity. They were almost confiscated by my mother when I fell off them while crossing the road. Even I realised that collapsing in busy traffic wasn’t big or clever, especially after a sneaky half of underage cider.

It wouldn’t be long before I discovered proper heels. Platforms were cheating: they just raised your whole foot off the ground, not just the back part. Proper heels – anything from three inches upwards – did something marvellous. They made you stand on the balls of your feet, accentuated your calves and your curves. In short, they made you look, and feel, sexy. This was very new and exciting to me as I turned 18. I was fortunate in having slim legs and small feet and soon enough I had the opportunity to work those assets.

I found myself singing backing vocals in my friends’ band – a role that required stage outfits. Inspired by my heroine, Debbie Harry, I suffered for my art by donning spike-heeled mules and all manner of high, strappy stilettos that made my feet sing louder than I did. Still, it was worth it for the response they – and by association I – got from the audience. I rose to the occasion every time.

Then the serious business of sky-high heels began, aided and abetted by a boyfriend who worshipped stilettos, the higher the better. We were in the post-punk phase but I managed to secure a coveted pair of red Fifties-style four-inch heels originally made for Sex, Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren’s King’s Road boutique. These shoes rocked. And rolled. I got attention in these shoes. I rocked. Then I became a rock journalist – one that vowed never to wear boring flat shoes.

As I climbed the career ladder from writer to editor, I tottered on towers of power and my enraptured boyfriend reminded me that skyscraper stilettos – which could reach the giddy heights of six inches – give you a swagger, an assertive strut.

Dizzying heels required a certain kind of wardrobe: tailored suits, pencil skirts, seamed stockings. In the early Eighties, fashion, music and self-expression came together in a burst of colour and style that I embraced wholeheartedly. Whether it was a second-hand cocktail dress, a fur-trimmed cape or a New Romantic frilled gypsy blouse – all needed to be accompanied by the appropriate footwear.

I became obsessed with shiny red stilettos and graduated to a day-glo scarlet pair with slim, vertiginous heels. I wore these with immense pride with a very short red and black satin skirt and unusual hosiery with one red and one black leg.

It was on a trip to New York to interview Soft Cell that I encountered my first shoe fetishist, who was so taken with my footwear that he asked me to stand on the draining board of a nightclub kitchen so that he could take photographs.

The shoes maketh the woman from the bottom up: and so it was that I embarked on many adventures foot-first, enjoying the power I could have over the male imagination. Pointed symbols of feminine erotic power required a step into a different world, one in which women dressed in leather and rubber and assumed a position of dominance.

My crowning high-heeled moment was posing in exquisite agony in a pair of six-inch heels for the cover of Skin Two magazine (yes, that’s the picture above), an image that provided fantasies for generations of fetish fans.

But the image, arresting as it was, focused on the shoe and a small portion of my ankle and calf – an objectification that had little to do with who I really was. I was just playing at being Miss Whiplash. I may have looked like a dominatrix but inside I was still a child with a big dressing-up box in a game that had got out of hand.

The higher the heel, the further I had to fall. These kinky boots weren’t made for walking, but that’s just what I had to do. One dark day, I placed a suitcase full of prized footwear next to the rubbish bin. It nearly broke my heart, but my sense of self was at stake. I was projecting an image of power but I felt powerless. I was faking it but couldn’t make it.

When the killer heels were spirited away, I went through a flat period. Sensible shoes, ballet pumps, brogues – in the hope of removing the potency of the symbol.

Gradually, I took baby steps back towards elevation, but stuck to square, chunky or Louis heels, never venturing above two or three inches. This helped me ground, to come back down to earth – to find myself again.

Then the years of towering caught up with me: lower back problems arrived with a vengeance and I was forced to keep my soles close to the floor. Fear kept me away from any shoe that would tilt my pelvis.

When I turned 50, I indulged in a short-term flirtation not only with younger men but also younger shoes. I was particularly proud of a pair of black leather Kurt Geiger boots that I stomped around in like a superannuated rock chick.

Since then I have stuck resolutely to low heels. Comfort is the priority. I no longer need to make a statement with my footwear. It’s as if I have come full circle, from sensible Clarks sandals to…. practical Clarks pumps.

What you see on the outside just isn’t as important any more: everything that’s meaningful to me is within. And perhaps that’s the lesson I had to learn from the rise and fall of my heels.

It’s not about soles: what matters is the soul.