catapult magazine

A Question of Shoes

by Joel Jacobson

Author’s Note: This poem is inspired by an art exhibit that appeared last summer at the Denver Museum of Contemporary Art. One artist, Viviane Le Courtois, makes her own shoes and wears them until they wear out. All 126 pairs of shoes were hung on the wall in succession. A picture of the display is here.

1.
Thin rope; thick twine.
Basket-style weaving.
I want to create
my own. Does the cost
of supplies
justify these shoes, making
them truly sustainable
for a meaningful length
of time?

3.
These could be real shoes—
but what makes them “real?” (an hourglass shape? arched support?
rubber? prefabrication?

5.
The toe cushion is larger
than the heel. Toe straps
snapped
killing
the entire shoe.
I look at the shoe.
ignorant of the journey,
of the moment
when the foot lurches from its tether
and the body’s foundation fails.

18.
What it must take for a shoe
to completely decompose.
And what of the condition
of the foot? The moment?
Don’t Touch
the fragile—
preserving them
is cruel enough.

30.
This rope is lighter,
rougher brown.
What of blisters
between your toes?
Is it art
that wounds,
or the experience?

32.
Tightly woven shoes.
My own sojourn
across this concrete floor
is breaking my back.
And I have Dr. Schol’s gel inserts.

35.
Too many breaks. Looking
for details that I will never know
because I haven’t walked
in these shoes I’m staring at,
oblivious of the fine line
between progress and pause.

49.
A horizontal weave
across the arch marks
a change in plan. I still want
to make my own,
be my own
but I don’t know
where to start.

55.
mud cakes
sand paper side walks
catholic suffering

74.
Looks new. Redesign?
Bad design? Cheap materials?
I can’t see what broke.
That’s typical of me—
assuming the worst,
assuming I know.

82.
Mangled mask shoe,
gaping mouth shoe
of misery. These shoes were happy once,
and then

87.
The cardboard dial labeled 87
hangs alone. Vacant.
I walked by, assuming
it lost or stolen.
But a child, the Samaritan,
wants to know the story.

93.
More sandal than flip flop,
light-weight slippers.
Soft. Sabbath.
There are no benches to rest
because the walk
isn’t supposed to last this long.

96.
Revisit the past. After so much
renovation and walking and making,
it’s salvitory to return
to what made me.

99.
This isn’t the first pair
or the last to be torn apart,
shredded, dissolved.
The sandal-shoe maker
chooses to make another new set
rather than mend the broken.

100.
They are beginning to all look the same—
the wounds, the deaths.
I’m shamed for ever thinking
“One size fits all”
because a little boy will wake up
and learn about his father’s death;
because there’s a mom and a dad
holding their dead son
due to a doctor’s mistake;
because there was a nihilist
who saw hope for everyone but himself,
and then robbed them at the gunpoint
of his own nothingness.

103.
Some shoes show sweat,
others dissolution.
Don’t worry about the shoe fitting.
It will break. It always does.
And then, why not just throw them away?

106.
Over an hour ago,
I set out to find inspiration
in these handmade sandals.
I see patterns,
failure,
evolution,
failure,
repeats,
redesigns,
and a critical spirit.

115.
Looks like a hurried construction—
not as much care—
as if the original vision
is wearing off
like yesterday’s dream.
Or maybe the talk
over tea
was more important
than this mortal,
timely shoe.

126.
Concise and cared for.
Frayed. It’s neither
a sleep dream
nor a hope dream.
It’s me. In white
hallways and moving murals,
hanging on a wall. Unwoven
like all creations over time.
What then sustains?
What of the worn-outs
and the tear-aparts?
What then of grace?