Evins- shoe maker for the stars

Have you heard of Evins the shoe designer? Google it and you'll probably be redirected to Evans the shoe shop. This is a travesty.

David E. Evins designed shoe after shoe for decade after decade, many of his designs selected and worn by stars on the silver screen, the red carpet and in the White House.

David E. Evins himself

He began his career as a fashion illustrator for American Vogue soon after World War II. While sketching shoes for the magazine, he started to alter what he saw for effect, trying to make the shoes more appealing. His editor was not impressed, and sacked him. Telling him that if he wanted to design shoes, then that is what he should do for a living. And so, he did.

Evins designed shoes from 1958, now owned by The Metropolitan Museum of Art

He first worked as a pattern cutter for others, but in 1947 opened up a factory with his brother Lee in the spiritual home of high heels: New York City.

A year later he won the prestigious Coty Award to celebrate American fashion innovation. The prize was for his creation of the shell pump, a design which showed more of a woman's foot than ever before. In the 50's he launched a handmade shoe called '6 ounces'. It sold for $175 a pair at a time when quality women's shoes typically cost about $45. Arguably, many of us wear shoes based on this early design every day as our fail safe court shoes for work and dinners out. Supposedly Evins reaction to the many awards he won over his career was to stand in the middle of the factory floor and say: 'No kidding?'

But to really appreciate his importance in the history of shoes, you have to look at his client list. He designed shoes that were part of Grace Kelly's trousseau- fit to see her become a princess. And for Cher, Jackie O, Marilyn Monroe, Ava Gardner, Judy Garland (supposedly his favourite dinner date), Marlene Dietrich, Elizabeth Taylor and was an absolute favourite of Nancy Reagan who routinely ordered six pairs a year- two styles in three different sizes for winter, summer and for when aboard Airforce One.

Image courtesy of Cote de Texas blog

Evins died in 1991 at the age of 85, but his legacy lives on and if you would like to own a pair of his famous shoes, I have one pair for sale, and they are as lovingly designed as you would expect.

https://marketplace.asos.com/listing/shoes/red--black-court-shoes-by-evins--shoe-maker-to-the-stars/161430

There's no place like home. There's no place like Paris.

She looked at him, looked over the sea, and then down at her beautiful red shoes on the aged promise of the promenade. And that's where her gaze remained.



Blinking and blinking again, her eyes itched. Where there should be tears she felt a drought, and where there should be sadness, a frozen solid lung.

He stretched out his arms like a zombie possessed, but she could not enter their stiffness. And after rubbing her arms as if she had survived a shock, he took his own back and wrapped them around himself.

She tried to count every diamanté on her satin shoes: If each was a wish, what would I do? Would I magically make my small town discontent disappear? Poof. Would I conjure away my ache for a job in Paris? Kazam. And for friends I've never met? Pazazz.




Then I could stay here. Right here. With him. As me. Would I sense there was a sky full of other lives I could be living, streets I could be walking, birds I could be hearing? Would I wonder? Would I slowly start to yearn? Until my heart broke, or I broke his again? Would my slow build wish be for him to change? My love? Ta dah.

And as the thoughts took over and the diamantés sparkled one by one, she knew that the she she was here, was never her at all. Nothing could change. A life in Paris was her own promise, a promise that she made to herself. She had slaved like Cinderella for this chance, never believing that it would come. Or digesting what it would mean for them. To him.

She clicked together her heels, smiled with one side of her mouth. There's no one like me, there's no one like me. And there's no place like Paris, no place like Paris.

Or love like ours.

She patted his chest, just above his heart, although that was unintended. Turned on her scarlet heels, and walked away. He braced himself. Then turned and walked towards home.

He to his baked beans, patio, car wash on Sundays, daily dog walks and three piece suite. She to power shoes, own office, daily conference calls and walk-in-wardrobe.



They would never speak again, but met often. In moonlit dreams- where boardrooms, childhood roots, 80's ambition, unrealised desires, the shine of the new and the comfort of the old- could never come between them.

In both their dreams, they walked the seafront. And she was always wearing, red sparkling shoes that echoed the stars.



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