Pin Me Down, I’m Louboutin
*Everyone at Hôtel de Crillon Was Looking at Shoes, Obviously
written AMANDA MORTENSON
documented BELLA SPANTZEL
They set up shop at Hôtel de Crillon. Three salons. Carpeted floors. High ceilings. Everything smelling faintly of inherited wealth and new soles. Louboutin called it Sartorial. No one asked what that meant. Everyone nodded.
First room: Batailles. Men hunched over shoes like the Enlightenment depended on it. One was patina-ing. Another was glazing. Someone whispered something about “le glaçage” and nodded like they were at a wine tasting. In a corner: butterflies. Not metaphorical. Real ones, stitched from organza and rhinestones and beads and sequins and probably quiet guilt. Maison Lesage. 55 hours per shoe. Do the math. No one blinked.
Second room: Salon des Aigles, where four men—beautiful in that way people are when they look like they’ve never waited in line for anything—were performing something loosely resembling a day in the life of someone too stylish to explain their job. They moved just enough to make it clear they were alive, but not enough to suggest they had anywhere to be. On their feet: Lord Chamb boots with a vaguely horsey superiority, the O Louvre loafers wrapped in moiré gros-grain like they just stepped out of an inheritance, and the Circus Booty Perla, which looked like a party trick from 1973 involving 10,000 rhinestones, some pearls, suede, and a memory of a harlequin no one really invited but everyone admired. Around them: glass vitrines displaying dissected shoes like scientific curiosities—Farfaman and Farfarock cracked open in slices, frozen mid-explanation. Someone near the back said “craftsmanship” under their breath like it was a secret. Someone else took a picture, shook their head slightly, and walked into the next room without looking up.
Third room: Salon Marie Antoinette, where the vibe shifted from performative to ceremonial. A green billiard table, because of course, held the entire Chambeliss line arranged like disciplined heirs waiting for the will to be read. Derby, Moc, Monk, Monk Boot, and one that looked like it simply couldn’t decide. The shoes didn’t speak, but they absolutely judged. All were adorned with the Chambelink, a sharp little metal pin stretched across the upper like a smirk—some minimal, some dripping in rhinestones, 200 if anyone’s counting, but no one was.
Each shoe had a matching shirt collar placed beside it, as if the collar had decided to go solo and the shoe was still getting over it. Someone whispered something about tailoring. Someone else responded with “elegance,” but their voice gave out halfway through, probably because the shoes were too close and listening.
There was a general atmosphere of reverence mixed with mild confusion, the kind where everyone agrees something is brilliant without needing to understand why. The shoes gleamed under the light like they had somewhere better to be, the rooms carried themselves like sets from a film where no one makes eye contact, and outside, Paris didn’t notice because Paris was busy being Paris. Christian Louboutin didn’t explain. There were no speeches, no signs, no marketing slogans. Just rooms filled with shoes that fully expected to be looked at.
all visuals produced for LE MILE .Digital
Bella Spanzel / www.bellaspantzel.com
