Livin' Off Campbell's

Way back when, when I was actually an indoctrinated member of high school (about five months ago) I was assigned the task of writing up a report on a shoe designer for my clothing class. The suggestions listed on the board were predictable; Jimmy Choo, Manolo. But earlier that week I had received a box smelling of fresh leather and ecstasy that held in it my newly coveted Jeffrey Campbell cut-out ankle boots. I had to write about him, you know, let my middle aged clothing teacher in on the J.C. action. So, after finding the internet stratosphere lacking of any interesting information on my favorite affordable designer, I emailed the personal relations department of the brand and this interview is what ensued:


Jeffrey Campbell’s shoes have always been a bit different, evoking a sense of free spirit and creativity. Campbell’s brand is still young, just nine years old and is based in LA but he’s already made a name for himself. Everything about the brand has personality, right down to the shoe boxes. The inside of one box actually features the scanned image of a love letter the LA office received telling the tale of a memorable and romantic encounter involving Jeffrey Campbell shoes. In search of the history of the brand, I contacted Ty McBride who works out of the company’s New York showroom with a few questions. I was promptly redirected to the man himself, Jeffrey Campbell and was granted access into the mind of a shoe demigod. I began by asking, why the shoe industry? Did you always plan on designing or did it just happen?

Jeffrey Campbell: I started working at the Seattle Nordstrom when I was 18 in the stock room. It was a job, it was fun and I liked the work. It started there. I moved onto the floor, and then off the floor and starting repping several lines. That was many many years ago now. I have just slowly grown and learned from everyone I have worked for and with. I started my own brand ten years ago with the help and encouragement of my wife.

Having read his bio featured on his website, I learned that the brand was born from his garage so I asked, how did it begin exactly in that garage?

JC: Well, not exactly, but we are a small company, a family owned company. I still house our operations and LA office out of my home, my staff has makeshift offices in our back garage. My entire staff is like family.

What was the first pair of shoes you designed?

JC: So many early ones. The first collection(s) were made in Spain, so lots of interesting fabrications and treatments like holographic prints and splatter painted leathers. Lots of novelty.

Did you attend school for the craft?

JC: I simply started working in the industry and worked my way up since I was 18. I took the long hard route; in fact, I still am on that route. STILL learning.

What do you wish to be known for?

JC: I only wish to be known for a great shoe that is fun, affordable and comfortable. That is what we search for every day. We never want to be boring or to be monitored by the industry. We always are influenced by what is going on, but we are known for our own takes on those things. We have very fun clients, this continues to help.

What type of girl would you love to see walking down the street, strutting in your shoes?

JC: We are lucky to see a Jeffrey nearly every day on the foot. We love vintage girls and the looks they use to incorporate our shoes. I always shop vintage with my daughters this is their look as well, they have amazing style despite being young.

And lastly, and most importantly, what are your favorite shoes that you own?

JC: I actually wear basic shoes most of the time, I wear a lot of loafers and dress shoes. I wear a lot of the shoes from the Jeffrey Campbell Men’s line called FIRST. Now that I think about it, I have a lot of metallic shoes.

xx

infinite saturday

(my baby angel)

yeah, yeah, bob dylan is a demon

roky erickson, and his insane life story, has permeated my daily routine. i think about him at least once, hearing your warbling voice trying to make a clear statement. his collection of publisher's clearing house mail sits on a dirty table in my head.

the woman who lives with rats and demons
is as unclean as they can come
her burden is her forgetfulness
but she says she just having some fun
she takes care of her insane child
who can only sleep when distortion reigns
his hair is matted and his teeth have rotted
that acid really got to his brain
good thing for the cardboard and all those pictures
she hoards and stores with no end
sometimes memories are best to live by
she's learned her lesson, they are her friends
i don't want you to be her paranoid boy
and i don't want to ever ever be like her
a woman who lives to remember then dies
because she's convinced she's the cure.

paolo, paolo, paolo

Paolo Roversi, Vogue Italia Supplement (courtesy of fotodecadent)

fairytale shadowplay-
wicked, stalked, afflicted.
light casted in a way i only thought
sound knew how to bend.
mushrooms, wings, and spiders
fall virtually upon the gap-toothed girl's face
and flesh.

oh yeah, and lara is wearing chanel.
while walking with a shadow wolf.
fucking brilliant.

the eyes closed experiment

as i waded through the darkness
that descended like a curtain over my eyes
i reached my arms out so far and sloppily,
tip tip tipping my fingers on surfaces to determine
where i was.
it was easy then to pretend you were there with me,
fumbling stupidly, grabbing at the black air
that sifted itself quickly out of my hands
like the fine sand that borders a beach parking lot,
unpolluted by the crunch of seashells or plastic bottles.
there was nothing to touch.
i liked that desert, a forever place of nothing;
the blackened galaxy that lies behind folds of skin
and you, i like you.
"i would have so much fun with you if you were blind"
you wouldn't say that i'm sure
instead we'd glide through the same black chasm;
the blind leading the blind,
only letting the sound of sighs and the biting of lips
enlighten our space travels from the kitchen to
my bedroom.

illumination! (shoe wizardry)

Nicholas Kirkwood for Rodarte LIGHT UP HEELS.
that is all.

a wedesday night revelation

coddled children will look at him
see his drool, the strange shape of his mouth and head
they'll see his tiny limbs, limp and dead
and he'll look at them,
with what they think are dead eyes
but they aren't. no, no they're not; they are masterful spies.
i was a coddled child until the other night
when he leaned in to speak straight through me
and with his observance he nearly blew me, blew me right away.
"it's not his brain"
i had heard them say, i had heard myself say
a smile, a pat on the head should suffice and then just as soon go on
my way,
their way
far away
i don't know why i did what i did, or said what i said
but i reached into my bag pulling out trick after trick,
and his gurgling laughter creeped into my head.
we went on a walk then through the hall and outside
to see if his friend was tucked away in his parking lot
Winnebago
he wanted to play 21, i wanted to say no stay, don't go
i talked to him like i'd want him to talk to me,
not a carcass
not a shell
but a kid who likes music and being free.

synesthesia

deep, banging bass pushing me from side to side
Layered beneath an exquisite twanging guitar
that extends its steel fingers through my ear canal.
wide, seductive expanses
surround me, caress me, sooth me,
Oh.................that lush trickling sound.
The voice of
apa
thetic
beauty sings through
Her breath breathing cooly
down my neck
Sing more, more of your angelic lust
Pierce me again, again with your subliminal passion
I hear you
two music box dancers are spinning, twirling; never intertwined
but always breathing each others' air

Oh.............that lush trickling sound.

McQueen Fall 2010

these woman, cloaked in what should be intimidating fabrics, stand instead like demure, golden statues molded by the incredible handcraft of alexander mcqueen. the dresses are all at once warrior-like, imperial, subdued, startling, and (i never use this phrase) breath-taking. the printed fabric was special ordered by mcqueen and has images of archaic angels and demons, replicated from photographs, cast on it, an obvious, yet still genius way to express his dark-aged inspiration. with their pale faces and capped heads, these women pacing slowly down a gilded hall, striking in their ornate appearance, but soft-spoken have the wisdom gained from bearing witness to cataclysmic tragedies, but the grace of every woman of every era. religion is something that i've tried to ward off using every type of repellent, but this collection which is so deeply embedded in the shimmering images of byzantine churches has reminded me that spirituality can, and has, resulted in fantasy inspiring artwork and structures. i experienced another type of spiritual awakening upon viewing the collection for the first time. after trying to hide the thought of mcqueen's death so far away from my consciousness, i still cried when my eyes ran over the detailing and the elegant lines. never before have i welled up from looking at still photographs of clothes. i questioned whether it was really just the fact of his death that had crept back up into my conscious that was producing such a guttural reaction. but i realized it wasn't. i was crying and trembling because the designs are simply so beautiful. within me, a realization as to why i love clothes so much flourished. the feeling of indescribable awe, transforming every notion of what beauty really means, sending me through time and back again, still wondering what just happened to me is why i am so invested in fashion. it isn't art, it just is. it doesn't need an explanation, even though every fashion journalist tries to attach words to an abstract feeling. mcqueen's final designs, ornate and startlingly perfect, express just that theory. there is nothing i can say that can accurately describe what this collection is or what it means to me. it is something romantic; something spiritual.

like when you squint your eyes and everything is blurry and light is stretched and everything looks perfect

i had on cobweb lenses;
snaring and entrapping every flickering light.
low glow and sweet smoke sat heavily and important,
torturing me into accepting that reality was better than delusion.
daring glances flew across the room dodging incantations;
their echoes are still bouncing blindly off my walls.
trembling inconsistency spilled itself empty;
its glass was sitting clear and clean, ready to rest infinitely that way.
voluminous anthologies laid themselves open;
pages blank and expectant, varnished with the intoxicating scent of hope.
the ground we were sitting on: leaves, sand, dirt, clay, grass?
i wouldn't have known hovering in my cloud of celestial fog.