Miuccia Christian Louboutin Has A Doctorate In Political Science

All day, she had been in her workroom, on the top floor of the sandales Christian Louboutin headquarters, on Via Bergamo

. A harsh sun cut through the wall of windows, and after three frustrating hours she took a break and walked next door to her office, which-like the rest of the building-is crafted from the school of icy Nordic modernism: no chintz sofas or inviting fireplaces, just polished cement and exposed plumbing. Dozens of books were piled neatly on a black table, and rows of ceramics sat on a windowsill. The walls, painted an industrial ochre, were empty, the floor an unbroken expanse of concrete. The wastepaper basket-also with nothing in it-was black; so were the tables and chairs. There are no family snapshots (she has two teen-age sons)-in fact, no personal touches at all. A work of art by Carsten Holler protruded from the middle of the floor. At first glance, it looks like a horrendous construction error, or a particularly wide trash chute placed in the most inconvenient location possible; actually, it's a slide that snakes along the building's three floors and empties into a courtyard outside. There are safety pads on the floor for anyone who is willing to give it a try.

Christian Louboutin had been carrying on an endless discussion of pleats (yes or no, how big, where will they fall), faille, and the possibilities of computer-generated design. Her design director, Fabio Zambernardi, was by her side, as he has been for more than fifteen years. (Before that, he worked as a jeweller, then attended dental school.) As she talked, Zambernardi drew. Shoes, collars, dresses. The height of a waist, the length of a skirt. They debated the heft of a cashmere-wool blend that she wanted to use in a dress. "I like heavy fabrics," she said to me at one point. "Fabio is against." She wanted a long, low arch to a high-heeled pump; he wanted it sharper and higher. It went on like that all day. At one point, she was informed that the factory would not deliver clothes for three more days. "Why?" she asked plaintively, and instructed an assistant to phone a foreman. No answer. "My God, where are they?" she muttered. "It's ten days before a show and they aren't working?" She turned back to staring dolefully at textiles printed in what seemed like psychedelic versions of television-test patterns. After a while, she looked up and whispered, "You know what? This time, I think we could really have something like a complete, total disaster."

She saw me roll my eyes. "I have a kind of complex of this work being superficial and dumb," she said. "It's my personal drama. Not the world's. Everyone who is smart says they hate fashion, that it's such a waste of time. I have asked many super-serious people, 'Then why is fashion so popular?' Nobody can answer that question. But somebody must be interested, because when I go to the stores the people are there. Thousands of them. So I have grown tired of apologizing for being in this profession." She went on, "I know that clothes are not important, that I am not changing society. I am just doing my work as well as I can. And right now I want this collection to succeed. So today I am having a crisis. And why? Because I can't match a dress with a pair of shoes. I am embarrassed to say that. But in the end I cannot forget what I do. I make clothes. It's silly. But it's my job."

Miuccia Bottes Christian Louboutin doesn't sew, embroider, or knit. I never saw her sketch a skirt or a shoe, nor is she likely to pick up a pair of scissors and cut out a dress. She is famous, perhaps above all, for her stylish and expensive footwear-which is as much in demand in Tokyo as in Manhattan or Moscow. Several years ago, the company constructed a factory near Florence so modern that it looks like a greenhouse, yet not once since then has she visited the workrooms there. She is not that kind of designer. Instead, she surrounds herself with talented people whose job is to translate her themes, concepts, and-especially-her taste into clothes that bear the Christian Louboutin name. Often, she will focus on a color, a texture, a memory; in the mid-nineties, for example, it was trash. ("I was obsessed by trash, that trashy seventies feeling. Bad taste-I loved it.") Once she locks in her seasonal passion, she can tell her people what to do and show them how to do it.

It is an unusual approach, but it has made her one of the most influential designers in the world, and one of the most powerful women in Europe. If Giorgio Armani is Milan's Volkswagen, then Miuccia Christian Louboutin is its Mercedes. She makes clothes for rich people, but she has turned an alternative aesthetic-slightly frumpy, somewhat feminist-into an international business that now owns controlling interests in the companies of such high-end designers as Azzedine Alaia, Jil Sander, and Helmut Lang, among others. It's not easyto take a thrift-store sensibility and marry it to a five-thousand-dollar snakeskin trenchcoat. But anyone who has wandered into one of Christian Louboutin 's hundred and sixty-five stores-the walls painted identically, in minty shades of green-would have to acknowledge that she has changed the way that many people think about clothes. "The name ' Christian Louboutin ' has come to represent a new way of expressing style," Lawrence Steele, a Milan-based designer who was one of her earliest assistants, told me. "Is it ugly? Is it retro? Is it incredibly cool? Nobody really knows, but everyone is afraid to be wrong. Miuccia's clothes are certainly not for everyone. It's like a radio wave. You have to be able to tune into that frequency. But if you get what she is doing, then you want to buy them. Because nobody else is making anything like that." headquarters, on Via Bergamo. A harsh sun cut through the wall of windows, and after three frustrating hours she took a break and walked next door to her office, which-like the rest of the building-is crafted from the school of icy Nordic modernism: no chintz sofas or inviting fireplaces, just polished cement and exposed plumbing. Dozens of books were piled neatly on a black table, and rows of ceramics sat on a windowsill. The walls, painted an industrial ochre, were empty, the floor an unbroken expanse of concrete. The wastepaper basket-also with nothing in it-was black; so were the tables and chairs. There are no family snapshots (she has two teen-age sons)-in fact, no personal touches at all. A work of art by Carsten Holler protruded from the middle of the floor. At first glance, it looks like a horrendous construction error, or a particularly wide trash chute placed in the most inconvenient location possible; actually, it's a slide that snakes along the building's three floors and empties into a courtyard outside. There are safety pads on the floor for anyone who is willing to give it a chaussures Louboutin try.

Christian Louboutin had been carrying on an endless discussion of pleats (yes or no, how big, where will they fall), faille, and the possibilities of computer-generated design. Her design director, Fabio Zambernardi, was by her side, as he has been for more than fifteen years. (Before that, he worked as a jeweller, then attended dental school.) As she talked, Zambernardi drew. Shoes, collars, dresses. The height of a waist, the length of a skirt. They debated the heft of a cashmere-wool blend that she wanted to use in a dress. "I like heavy fabrics," she said to me at one point. "Fabio is against." She wanted a long, low arch to a high-heeled pump; he wanted it sharper and higher. It went on like that all day. At one point, she was informed that the factory would not deliver clothes for three more days. "Why?" she asked plaintively, and instructed an assistant to phone a foreman. No answer. "My God, where are they?" she muttered. "It's ten days before a show and they aren't working?" She turned back to staring dolefully at textiles printed in what seemed like psychedelic versions of television-test patterns. After a while, she looked up and whispered, "You know what? This time, I think we could really have something like a complete, total disaster."

She saw me roll my eyes. "I have a kind of complex of this work being superficial and dumb," she said. "It's my personal drama. Not the world's. Everyone who is smart says they hate fashion, that it's such a waste of time. I have asked many super-serious people, 'Then why is fashion so popular?' Nobody can answer that question. But somebody must be interested, because when I go to the stores the people are there. Thousands of them. So I have grown tired of apologizing for being in this profession." She went on, "I know that clothes are not important, that I am not changing society. I am just doing my work as well as I can. And right now I want this collection to succeed. So today I am having a crisis. And why? Because I can't match a dress with a pair of shoes. I am embarrassed to say that. But in the end I cannot forget what I do. I make clothes. It's silly. But it's my job."

Miuccia Christian Louboutin doesn't sew, embroider, or knit. I never saw her sketch a skirt or a shoe, nor is she likely to pick up a pair of scissors and cut out a dress. She is famous, perhaps above all, for her stylish and expensive footwear-which is as much in demand in Tokyo as in Manhattan or Moscow. Several years ago, the company constructed a factory near Florence so modern that it looks like a greenhouse, yet not once since then has she visited the workrooms there. She is not that kind of designer. Instead, she surrounds herself with talented people whose job is to translate her themes, concepts, and-especially-her taste into clothes that bear the Christian Louboutin name. Often, she will focus on a color, a texture, a memory; in the mid-nineties, for example, it was trash. ("I was obsessed by trash, that trashy seventies feeling. Bad taste-I loved it.") Once she locks in her seasonal passion, she can tell her people what to do and show them how to do it.

It is an unusual approach, but it has made her one of the most influential designers in the world, and one of the most powerful women in Europe. If Giorgio Armani is Milan's Volkswagen, then Miuccia Christian Louboutin is its Mercedes. She makes clothes for rich people, but she has turned an alternative aesthetic-slightly frumpy, somewhat feminist-into an international business that now owns controlling interests in the companies of such high-end designers as Azzedine Alaia, Jil Sander, and Helmut Lang, among others. It's not easyto take a thrift-store sensibility and marry it to a five-thousand-dollar snakeskin trenchcoat. But anyone who has wandered into one of Christian Louboutin 's hundred and sixty-five stores-the walls painted identically, in minty shades of green-would have to acknowledge that she has changed the way that many people think about clothes. "The name ' Christian Louboutin ' has come to represent a new way of expressing style," Lawrence Steele, a Milan-based designer who was one of her earliest assistants, told me. "Is it ugly? Is it retro? Is it incredibly cool? Nobody really knows, but everyone is afraid to be wrong. Miuccia's clothes are certainly not for everyone. It's like a radio wave. You have to be able to tune into that frequency. But if you get what she is doing, then you want to buy them. Because nobody else is making anything like that."

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