Photo by Raoul Ortega on Unsplash
Maison Clairvoy
One of the greatest gifts I ever received were my dance shoes from Maison Clairvoy. The shoes themselves were not gifts and the cost was deducted from my salary that I earned as a cabaret dancer. The gift was the opportunity to have dance shoes made by hand with extreme precision and skill to fit my foot exactly and provide a strong base to dance from. A fit that was meant to cradle the foot in comfort while withstanding and supporting an enormous amount of torque and pressure created by human muscles and mass to perform athletic movement. Dance shoes created by one of the greatest artisan workshops in the history of the world. I was lucky enough to have two pairs. One for the Can Can and one for the more elegant numbers with feathers and rhinestones.
When I arrived in Paris, to work exclusively for a well-known dance troupe, one of the first things my dance director instructed me to do, was to go to a local atelier and have my dance shoes fitted. We were rehearsing in an underground theatre. It was a dark, cavern of a space, dank and musty. An old wooden stage took up the center of the room and was surrounded by low red velvet settees for the audience. Crystal chandeliers strategically place to capture light and reflect sparkling drops of shimmer and illumination throughout the room. One early evening, directly as rehearsal ended, our manager, walked towards me. He was a man of little words. He looked like he had stepped out of a 1940’s old Hollywood film, dressed in neatly pressed slacks and clean, crisp shirt. An ever-present cigarette dangling from his fingertips. Smoke drifting up in misty curly cues into the blackness of the low ceiling. I quickly took a deep breath and inhaled the mysterious smoke. I wanted to take in everything I could about Paris. Everyone smoked in the city and I wanted to understand why. I knew I had to try it- to know what the Parisiennes knew. To find out why they loved smoking so much. The smoke was a mixture pure, unadulterated tobacco and somehow, men’s cologne.
“Hello Darling, you will need dance shoes, here’s the address and give them this bill.”
“Do you think you can find it?” “Your dance captain will give you the time, place, name and address of the shoe maker.”
He handed me two small printed sheets of paper. Once I had the address, I found my way via Metro and my small tourist map of Paris that I keep with me at all times. The map listed the streets and arrondissements and favorite things to see and do in Paris. Maison Clairvoy was not too far from where I was staying in Pigalle, The Red Light district. Many of the touring dancers were booked into an auberge, well known in the dance world, in the heart of the entertainment district. The first Parisienne cabaret, The Moulin Rouge, had come to life and still existed in this very location. It’s Red Windmill nestled among business offices, laundries, boulangeries and patisseries. Veg stands and charcuterie specialists. Working Parisiennes from all walks of life moved carefully among the narrow sidewalks making sure to miss the dog poo that was everywhere. The odors that rose up from the sidewalk were heady and odoriferous concoction of dog urine and feces, butchered meat, rotting veg, baking bread and perfume. It smelled awful but I grew to love it and now decades later, I can still smell it, just thinking of it. Beautiful tall dazzling workers hung about the corners of the Rue, 24 hours a days, in dresses, miniskirts and platforms. Their faces blown up with injectable silicone and made up for any excitement that came their way. Wary and defensive towards the young girls they were attempting to emulate. But kind and helpful if you were really were in distress.
I don’t know how I found myself navigating through a part of the world where I didn’t speak the language and it was completely foreign to me. As I remember, I was practical about it and I wanted to dance, so I figured it out. It wasn’t too difficult to understand the language or read it. The French used the same alphabet as the English. I found the store front with dance shoes in the window. There was a door next to it that led up a flight of old stairs. I climbed up the stairs and was ushered into a workspace where cubbyholes stuffed with dance shoes of every kind lined the walls. A wave of warm air infused with the perfume of soft, fine leather came towards me and enveloped me. An older gentleman greeted me. He was dressed in courdoroys and a pullover. He called his assistant over. A youngish, impossibly thin, chic woman dressed in black stovepipe slacks and a white button down work shirt. He gave her instructions in French and motioned for me to follow her. She smiled and led me to a bench. I was quickly seated and she measured my foot from all angles and then had me try on samples of an open toed sandal with heels and and a closed toe tap shoe. When I touched the shoes the softness of the leather was like butter and shone as a if someone had massaged the strong leather for hours to attain the beautiful sheen. The heels of each pair were solid and strong and anchored in a way that would last through years of punishment as they carried me across stages in Africa, Europe and Scandinavia and then back home to United States. I glanced around the workshop and saw many types of shoes for many types of dancers. The fitting was over quickly and I was on my way again and left the workshop. I left the shop with a feeling of privilege to have experienced something so rare and romantic. Knowing that I had officially entered the world of dance. The world of the Ballet Russe, The Moulin Rouge, The Lido. I had been to the source. Two weeks later my shoes arrived. I slipped my feet into my very one handmade dance shoes and they fit perfectly. They cradled my feet in the all the right places and felt like a solid hug from someone who loves you very much. And then we were on our way to start our tour. Those shoes became an extension of my body and allowed me to jump, twirl, kick and land with force. Once I had to have the straps replaced, but otherwise they withstood years of aggressive use. A testimony to the enduring and exquisite craftsmanship of Maison Clairvoy.
Photo by Kazua Ota
on Unsplash
