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christian louboutin shoes ebay “It was the first time in Paris that people were super dressing up. The music was great. We were this band of super-young people, in all our best clothes.” The amount of time that Louboutin spent at Le Palace in the late seventies and early eighties cannot be overstated, nor can the amount of time he has spent talking about it since. Razzle-dazzly (on opening night, Grace Jones drove through a cloud of dry ice on a pink Harley-Davidson and sang “La Vie en Rose”) and eclectic (Mick Jagger mixed with club kids and Mitterrands), the place was the crucible of Louboutin’s sensibility, the point of departure for everything since. Hamish Bowles, the Vogue editor, remembers Louboutin as a “giddy, fun-loving party boy” and a “very early bloomer” who would take to the dance floor in vintage matador getups. Roland Barthes wrote that Le Palace “isn’t a ‘club’ like the others, it gathers together in an original place pleasures ordinarily scattered: that of the lovingly preserved theatre, the pleasure of the gaze; the excitement of the Modern, the exploration of new visual sensations due to new technologies; the joy of the dance, the charm of possible encounters.” Louboutin put it to me more succinctly, shouting over the buzz of the Vespa: “It was the center of the universe!”

Louboutin headed westward on the Boulevard Saint-Martin, then looped south toward the Bastille. Earlier, he had shown me some old strips of photo-booth pictures: a friend, a beautiful girl with poufy hair; he, a feral preadolescent posing hammily with his face in the girl’s crotch. “The photo booth was right there,” he said, as we circled the Bastille. Louboutin has, throughout his life, retained a sense of theatre. His friend Konstantin Kakanias, writing in the Los Angeles Times Magazine , recalled a blowup that erupted between him and Louboutin, “two overgrown children of 40-plus years,” in the midst of a road trip through Bavaria. “The fight peaked with Christian jumping fearlessly from a moving car on a deserted road in some Wagnerian forest—dramatic and very James Bond,” Kakanias wrote. “Very gay James Bond,” Kakanias told me, later. “It all started over which of Ludwig’s castles was prettier.”

Soon, we arrived in the Twelfth Arrondissement, the neighborhood where Louboutin grew up. His parents, Roger and Irène, met in Brittany and moved to Paris shortly after marrying. Roger was an ébéniste , a carver of fine woods. Irène was a housewife, the indulgent mother of three daughters and a much younger son. The Louboutin daughters, like their parents, had pale skin. Christian’s was noticeably darker. Louboutin has said that his father wanted little to do with him, though he once showed him how to whittle, with the grain, a piece of pearwood. Christian thought that he might have been adopted, and confronted his mother: she told him that there must have been an African slave somewhere in the family’s bloodline. The apartment where Louboutin now lives, on Rue Volney, is decorated with the bust of an African.

Louboutin parked the scooter outside No. 43 Rue de Fécamp. It was a complex of ten or so red brick buildings, set back from the street. They were a little run-down but attractive, with balconies and mansard roofs. At the entry gates, Louboutin got into a conversation with the complex’s superintendent, who told him that in the nineties the area had been plagued by drugs and violence. “When we were here, it was sort of Harlemish,” Louboutin said. “You’d have fights between kids, kids burning cats, dogs being poisoned—but no drugs.”

We walked down an alley, stopping in front of Louboutin’s old building. “Those two windows!” he said, indicating a sixth-floor apartment. When Louboutin was ten, he asked his mother for a private telephone line. She obliged. He wrote the numbers of his friends directly on a wall, near his bed. “I was always so happy to see my friends dancing above me as I went to sleep,” he remembered. An old report card shows that Louboutin missed school sixty-four times in one semester. When he didn’t feel like going, he enlisted the help of his mother, who would write whatever note of excuse he dictated.

Louboutin’s old church, Saint-Esprit, was a few blocks away. “I tied everyone’s robe to the bench during my First Communion, and, when they stood up, the whole thing flew over,” he said. “But then I did, like”—he mimed an innocent face, and folded his hands in prayer—“the little boy-angel!” We passed by his elementary school, the École Brèche aux Loups. He recalled, “This mother of my schoolmate, she was so glamorous—I was always waiting to see what outfits she would wear.” When Louboutin was twelve, he moved in with an older friend.

“How did you get money?” I asked.

“You don’t need money when you’re twelve!” he said.

Louboutin presents his early separation from his parents as an inevitability, rather than as a trauma: he was a tween with a portfolio, a half-pint of the demimonde who, even at the age of twelve, had people to see and ventures to tend to. Besides, he says, he dropped in on his parents all the time, for lunch or for laundry. They were fine with his sophisticated life style.

Back on the Vespa, we crossed a highway and entered the Bois de Vincennes, a sprawling park. We circled a lake, near a structure with a domed roof—the Pavilion of Cameroon and Togo, erected for the Colonial Exhibition of 1931. By Louboutin’s time, it had been turned into a Buddhist temple, with a Japanese garden of bamboo and pussy willows. Its exoticism piqued his curiosity. He devised an elaborate travel game, conjuring a sort of early virtual reality. “I would go to the travel agent’s office, and look at airline timetables and plan routes,” he recalled. “I’d convert money, and check to see that I wasn’t running into any national holidays, and figure out what fruit I could eat.”

We exited the park, turning left onto the Avenue Daumesnil. As we passed the Museum of African and Oceanic Art, Louboutin gave me a nudge. There, as a schoolboy, he had encountered a sign that featured a shoe with a spiky heel in the middle of a red circle with a diagonal slash. Its point was to prohibit high heels, which would have damaged the museum’s mosaic floors. Louboutin was fascinated by the taboo. He began carrying a notebook everywhere, sketching shoes. (One of his early drawings depicts a cloven stiletto, with two heels.) Louboutin, who had kept up his absenteeism, was expelled from school when he was sixteen. He didn’t mind. “Yes, I wanted to be a shoe designer, but I never thought it could be a profession,” he told Kakanias. “But what was the alternative? Doctor? Too dirty! Air hostess? Maybe not! Then someone gave me a book on Roger Vivier, and, chérie , instantly I knew that was it!”

After he left school, Louboutin went to work at the Folies-Bergère, the carnal Parisian cabaret where Josephine Baker wore her banana skirt. Louboutin was a sort of mascot, tending to the showgirls and showing them his drawings. Often, they dispatched him to the butcher’s, instructing him to buy pounds of veal carpaccio. Louboutin recalled, “I said to them, ‘You all are eating veal carpaccio all the time!’ They said, ‘We’re not eating it, stupid, it’s to put in the shoes.’ ” When Louboutin designed the Very Privé—an illusionist’s shoe—he was thinking of veal carpaccio.

“Men are like bulls,” Louboutin said. “They cannot resist the red sole.” We were eating lunch at one of his neighborhood brasseries—Louboutin had ordered blood sausage—and he was expounding on the sexes, and sex, and how both of the former project ideas about the latter onto shoes. “I think I have a part of myself which is a woman,” he said. “When girls are together, they speak completely differently than when there is a guy around. But, with me, they don’t see this masculine thing stopping them, and there is not this boundary.” Louboutin took a bite of his food. He doesn’t think he is a woman, he continued; he didn’t start crying during the movie “The Piano.” Still, he said, he has an ability to meld the needs of Venus with the desires of Mars. He said, “The core of my work is dedicated not to pleasing women but to pleasing men.”

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I, a woman, find wearing high heels agreeable only on the very rare occasion that (1) I will be ferried between destinations upon a palanquin or (2) I am going to a cocktail party and, at five feet two, don’t want to spend the evening discussing the latest movies with somebody’s nipples. Louboutin, however, is not sympathetic to complaints about the deleterious effects of high heels on locomotion. He told me a story about a client who, having bought her first pair of his heels, was forced to slacken the pace of her morning walk. “She began to notice the little details of her neighborhood for the first time,” he said, proudly. To me, this sounded like luxury foot-binding, but to Louboutin it was evidence of the quality of her life. He is an exponent of what might be thought of as a Slow Foot movement, asserting that a sort of virtue is forged in the discipline of wearing exquisite, handmade shoes, even if they cramp the metatarsals. Clogs are a particular bugbear. “I hate the whole concept of the clog!” Louboutin said. “It’s fake, it’s ugly, and it’s not even comfortable!” He continued, “And I hate the whole concept of comfort! It’s like when people say, ‘Well, we’re not really in love, but we’re in a comfortable relationship.’ You’re abandoning a lot of ideas when you are too into comfort. ‘Comfy’—that’s one of the worst words! I just picture a woman feeling bad, with a big bottle of alcohol, really puffy. It’s really depressing, but she likes her life because she has comfortable clogs.”

To Louboutin, shoes are like books, or workouts: if they don’t demand anything of you, you’re not going to get a lot out of them. Wearing gorgeous shoes is a form of self-enrichment. “The shoe is very much an X-ray of social comportment,” he said.

Selling shoes at his first boutique, Louboutin became a keen student of consumer behavior. He noticed that Japanese women tended toward ankle boots, that most American women had pedicures, and that most French women didn’t (“When I started, sandals were not a possibility for the French”). Whatever their nationality, Louboutin’s customers enacted the same ritual upon trying on a pair of shoes. “When a woman buys a pair of shoes, she never looks at the shoe,” Louboutin said. “She stands up and looks in the mirror, she looks at the breast, the ass, from the front, from the side, blah blah blah. If she likes herself, then she considers the shoe.” Fortunately for Louboutin, women like themselves in designer shoes more than they like themselves in many other pieces of designer clothing. “The foot has this lucky thing,” Louboutin said. “A lot of women don’t like when they’re sort of fat, but a fat foot is as beautiful as a skinny foot. Think of Greek statues. Look how many people love the foot of the baby! There is something super-charming about the baby foot.”

Louboutin considers his shoes as a sort of man-bait: men like high heels, and women like being liked by men. “It’s not like we’re designing an object,” Hugo Marchand told me. “Christian will never do shoes that don’t give an advantage to his customers.” Louboutin recalled, “One man said to me, ‘I have never looked at shoes before,’ and it was a huge compliment.” He went on, “I would hate to be in a position of a person that does things that repulse the guy.” At this, I mentioned a fur boot that Louboutin made, with a cleft for each toe, so that the foot looked like a lion’s paw. I doubted that many men would find it as amusing as I did. Louboutin looked apologetic. “Yes,” he said. “That is for a woman who is alone.”

Louboutin knows a couple who met, and married, after the man approached the woman about her red soles. With their erotic connotations, Louboutin’s shoes have served as props in many romances, not all of them innocent. Michael Nitis, the manager of Louboutin’s boutique on Horatio Street, in New York, told me of clients who shop uptown for their wives and downtown for their mistresses; another customer, every time he buys a pair, “gets an extracurricular activity behind closed doors from his wife.” Men buying for women, as a rule, gravitate toward spindly, soaring styles. They don’t like thick heels or wedges. “The Pass mule”—a tarty d’Orsay sandal, balanced on a golf tee of a heel—“is really the mistress shoe,” Louboutin said. “It depends on the country, but the code is definitely leather, which is flesh.”

Louboutin will hire a salesperson on the basis of personality as much as on that of retail experience. “I’m kind of, like, deformed,” he said. “I buy the smallest thing, like a stamp, and I’m thinking, This person would be good for the shop.” Louboutin poached a hostess from an Air France lounge; another time, he hired the bellboy who was assigned to look after him at a hotel in Dubai. Female salespeople offer reassurance; the role of the male salesperson, Louboutin said, is “the ideal flirt.” One of the company’s biggest sales so far this year was at the Madison Avenue boutique, when a woman “with a transatlantic accent” came in and spent fifty-five thousand dollars in less than half an hour, buying, among other items, five pairs of crocodile Biancas—one for each of her houses.

Someone I know used to tell her husband, when a particularly high credit-card statement arrived, that Christian Louboutin was her gynecologist. She wasn’t entirely off—Louboutin considers the fomenting of human reproduction part of his job. He treats his admittance into the secret world of women an almost medical confidence. One day, at his offices, he wanted to demonstrate the way that a pair of his shoes can extend the line of the leg. He summoned one of his employees and had her step on top of a concrete bench. Louboutin then instructed her to hike up her skirt. “It’s all a matter of this here going up to here,” he said, tracing a line from foot to hip, up the length of her stocking. “I haven’t yet met a woman who told me, ‘I wish I had shorter legs.’ ”

A few days later, I was walking through a muddy field in the Vendée, waiting for Louboutin to wake up. Dogs barked and the smell of woodsmoke filled the air. The brown heads of hydrangeas bobbed in the wind. After twenty minutes or so, I walked back through a formal garden—hedges like sliding doors—and into the kitchen of Louboutin’s castle, where I sat before an enormous, blackened hearth. Copper pots of every size hung from a rack; a side table, covered with a rough striped cloth, heaved with bowls of chestnuts and shallots. There were peeling cabinets brimming with dusty decanters and chipped dishes, antique cookbooks, stray bulbs of garlic, a snorkel mask. Around nine o’clock, Louboutin shuffled in, wearing a faded flannel Pendleton shirt, the collar turned up, corduroy pants, and a pair of red Converses.

“Good morning,” he said. “How did you sleep?”

We had spent the previous night in the castle, after taking the TGV from Paris to Nantes. From there, we drove about an hour to reach Louboutin’s house, just outside the village of Champgillon. The place was old, grand, and freezing. In a sombre dining room, I bumped into a taxidermied boar, wearing a golden crown and carrying a tray of silver napkin rings. (At his apartment in Paris, Louboutin has a stuffed cougar: “We call it Sweet Demi. We walk in and say, ‘Hi, Demi!’ ”) A set of Ingres drawings hung on the wall of the living room, where Louboutin designs his winter collections. The curtains were deep purple. The walls were painted a color that Louboutin described as jaune d’oeuf.

In the kitchen, Louboutin pulled some jars of homemade preserves— pêche , poire , mirabelle —down from a high shelf. He took a rubber band off the top of one of them, removed a piece of plastic wrap, and, with a knife, jimmied out a disk of wax. We spread the jam on fresh bread from the village and drank milky tea. Louboutin was planning to heat up some lunch, later on, but he was having trouble lighting an ancient oven. He took out his iPhone and called Bruno, who was in Luxor. He joked, “It’s the Egypt Oven-Emergency Hotline!”

Midway through breakfast, the cloth on the side table caught Louboutin’s eye. I had a pen and a piece of paper, which I gave to him. He started sketching, quick flicks of the wrist yielding graceful blue lines. Soon, a shoe had started to take shape. Its sole was high and thick, with the swooping shape of a roller coaster.

“It seems pretty obvious that you do a wedge,” Louboutin said. “It’s a striped Basque fabric, and, when I think of the Basque, I’m going to think of pelote . They have these things that they use to protect against sweat, so I would do something like a handkerchief here.”

He made a few more dashes with the pen, and a cute, floppy bow materialized, tying up the toes like a present. Louboutin continued, shading in some edging along the wedge: “This would be osier , a woven-wood type of thing.” I asked him why. “It makes it less of just a fabric shoe, which can look kind of cheap,” he said. “It adds some construction, some depth.”

He started scribbling another bow, around the ankle. “ Alors ,” he said. “That’s just, like, a detail. It could be nice to try to have it in leather, instead of fabric.”

After breakfast, Louboutin wanted to show me around the garden. He planted much of it himself—before becoming a shoe designer, he was briefly a garden designer—and he takes great pleasure in watching the grounds of the château cycle through the seasons. Louboutin traded his Converses for a pair of heavy boots, and we went outside. The daffodils were just coming up. A quince tree was dripping with buds. Louboutin bent over and pulled some weeds from a bed of dusky hellebores.

We walked by a rose garden, and through a grove of conical yews, coming to a bed of annuals. “It’s going to be all sorts of pink and purple mix,” Louboutin said. “A sort of bright Indian garden!”

“ Bonjour! ” he yelled, to a man in a beret and galoshes, carrying a weed whacker.

The sun was shining, and the dogs had given way to songbirds. Somewhere near an allée of irises, I lost Louboutin. I turned around to glimpse him urinating under a rare palm tree— le petit quelque chose qui fout tout par terre.  ♦

Lauren Collins began working at The New Yorker in 2003 and became a staff writer in 2008. She is the author of “ When in French: Love in a Second Language .”

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