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I recently came across This Is an Essay by Hanif Abdurraqib about Sneakers. At first glance, it’s a poetic piece about shoes (of course), but below the surface it outlines the transformation of Hanif’s passion for shoes as it evolved from a solitary joy to a means of connecting:
On Nate’s birthday, I send him a pair of Air Max 1s. As an engagement gift for Mark and Layne, I spring for matching pairs of Air Max 90s. Another writer peer has a book published, and I ask her what size kicks she wears while scouring the internet for a pair that matches her book cover. Sarah can’t wait to show me her new Jordans, insists that she may never go back to any other shoes again. These are things I used to do to celebrate myself only—buying shoes on the days when I got good news or bad news. I have found myself starting to imagine a love for sneakers as a communal activity, even if it’s just walking around a sneaker store with someone who has no intention of buying anything, but perhaps wants to see how some shoe looks on his feet. I think, as I get older, this is my way of working against all of the concepts I was fed about our passions being things we engage in as solitary acts, geared to keep people on the outside and keep ourselves as the authority.
Everyone has something precious that they hold close, until the time comes for them to excitedly show it to a person they deem worthy. With this in mind, I consider myself most in love with moments like these: where someone takes the time to show me what they care a great deal about. I work to replicate that in the most impractical and foolish ways: playing a YouTube video of an owl walking into a kitchen for a room of people, or playing over and over the same part in Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk.” And now, putting a pair of sneakers in the mail for a friend who once told me that they loved sneakers, but didn’t know what pair would be right for them.
And now, giving small bursts of encouragement when a friend who has worn flats for years sends me a picture of them in Reebok high tops.
And now, holding in my hands a pair of sneakers I once imagined only precious to me, looking out and telling my people I would love to show you something.
**[My bolding added]**
This brief essay might as well have been made for my sensibilities: a lover of artful writing and the most amateur of sneakerheads. It nails the two sides of today’s theme, the joys we share and the joys we stow. I’ll explore this through the lens of two of my hobbies, sneakers and music.
Sneakers
Sneakers. I don’t know where it began, or how I fell down the rabbit hole exactly, but my passion for sneakers stems certainly in part from my interest in fashion and aesthetics. Yet I view sneaker culture differently than that of my basic wardrobe pursuits (this jacket matches those pants compliments those accessories, etc.).
For me, sneakers are art in motion. They’re a consumable piece of design intended to be destroyed. It is my personal philosophy that truly great sneakers, regardless of the price tag, are designed to be worn. That’s the fleeting beauty of the genre as an artistic statement. Sure, I’ll take particular care of my rarer or more liked shoes, extending their longevity. But I derive excitement from the idea that they will one day be destroyed by use, and that’s the point. When my favorite pair kicks the can, that’s a celebration of their role as vehicles transporting me through the many journeys of life.
But let’s be more concrete with a few of my very own kicks:
The Killshots were the vehicles of my early twenties; they carried me from Dallas to Iceland to Barcelona and back, from a nervous college kid to a floundering young adult. A shoe so clean, their design has been their downfall. Claiming near-ubiquitous popularity with every generic white guy that’s slightly style-conscious, they’ve memed their way out of my wardrobe, mostly. But we had an exceptional run, and I’ve still got a fresh pair boxed away awaiting their fall from the limelight.
The Blazers were a small, yet exciting departure in my aesthetic. My first foray into high tops, and my wading deeper into the sneaker head waters. I would argue that they have suffered the same fate as the Kill Shots (too simple, too clean, too awesome for their own good- now featured on every gym girl across the land), but I still rep them unabashedly.
The Parra Dunks are deeper in the vein of artistic expression I referenced above. These Dunks are a prime example of sneaker culture transcending simple footwear. They’re a combination of ‘high’ and low art, of popular sports brands enticing incredible artists to thumbprint iconic shoes with their own imagination.
For context, “Piet Parra is a Dutch artist based in Amsterdam… Often compared with Keith Haring or Vior Moscoso, Parra is best known for his curved post-pop imagery.” - none of which I knew before discovering his collaboration with Nike and exploring his works further.
Which has in turn led me to his absolutely sick clothing.
The Yeezy’s were a gift, similar to sneakers in the essay above. They are the byproduct of a decade-long friendship, set in motion and frequently nurtured by thoughtful gifts along the way (another great story for another time).
Setting aside momentarily the designers’ subsequent implosion of character (which has led me to shelve the shoes - RIP)...
I adore the Zebras for their absolute distinctness. To some they may be gaudy (though on the less gaudy end of the spectrum for Yeezy footwear) and to many they may be ugly, but to me they are undeniably exceptional in their stylistic uniqueness. At a glance and from a distance, one can instantly recognize them as Yeezys, and not only that but recognize them as a differentiated product (lace, sole, tongue, fabric design) in one of the most crowded verticals in the world, shoes.
Furthermore, like all art, my appreciation of my Yeezy’s is also driven by context. Prior to his now self-inflicted reputational conflagration, the ‘old Kanye’ was a controversial artist turned cultural icon turned fashion mogul, who transcended music to create one of the most valuable and recognizable brands in the world.
An adoration of sneakers is an appreciation for the subtleties of design and the endless possibilities that can occupy such a limited space (the mere covering of feet). Akin to my obsession with house music, I appreciate the endless possibilities and creativity that the artists generate, spurred by the limitations inherent in the genre; four on the floor house music is highly formulaic, and yet within these semi-strict limitations it creates space for infinite creativity and pushes artists to innovate on the nuances of the genre. Like poetry, it is precisely the limitations of the form that birth its creativity. And the same can be said for the elevation of sneakers. Items that I once viewed as merely my coverings for kickin’ around, I now appreciate for their subtleties of expression.
For me this is a solitary joy that can be juxtaposed with my love for music, and the initial inspiration for this piece and its title.
Music
For the longest time, I’ve kept a running list of interesting conversation questions on my phone. One among them was “What is the greatest joy you share with others, keep to yourself?”, which was directly sourced from my love for music. Over the arc of my early twenties, I came to be music obsessed, attending festivals, learning to produce, and attempting to DJ.
It’s a joy that I cherish, but which I’ve been extremely careful to share. I’m always happy to discuss music, but I wasn’t always eager to see a concert with just anyone. It is a weird thing to communicate to those who aren’t ‘in it’, but most of the concerts/festivals that I attend are very special spaces which I hesitate to compromise through the inclusion of anything that will negatively affect my experience (a friend too drunk, a dramatic group dynamic, etc.). For the longest time, attending a music-related experience with a significant other was a pretty deliberate step for me. By way of example, my favorite show ever was attended alone. The immense joy that I derive from live music experiences, and particularly my favorite artists, is not something I take lightly. So, to share these precious few moments is something I’ve always been thoughtful about expressing.
And this may seem ridiculous to some– ‘Wynn, it’s literally a crowded room and a dude pressing buttons on a stage.’, which is fair. And to each their own. But bringing it full circle, this leads back to Abdurraqib’s essay. Music was once a joy I stowed away, to be shared with and shown to a carefully curated few. It’s now evolved into one of my favorite means of connecting with others, whether that be through sharing my compulsively constructed playlists or dancing to disco.
Admittedly, I don’t really have a conclusion to this half-baked treatise beyond the challenge for your own lives that you consider which joys you share and which you stow away, appreciating the importance of both.
With that, I’ll leave you a quote:
“Art is how we decorate space, music is how we decorate time”, and sneakers are how we decorate feet. - Jean-Michel Basquiat, probably.
- W
P.S. And for those of you hunting for new tunes, my obsession (and Spongebob themed thumbnails) is on display here.