Usually my boots hold some sway. Not so last night. Here was the reigning fashion paradigm.
Here are my boots.
Here’s a hand-tooled Peruvian saddle by tack artist by Hacienda La Encantada.
No idea what these are. I do know they glisten under hot arena lights.
These too. I don’t think they’re wearables, but I’d like to wear them. I’ll buy a horse if I have to.
I suppose I could have gone for this at the silent auction.
But that wouldn’t really do it. A buckle isn’t the answer. It’s a whole big thing, to take on a set of lines and textures that echo a body much bigger than your body. It’s a culture. It’s a craft.
A couple weekends ago The Frye played a lesbian wedding in an art gallery. Like, everybody seated in a circle. Like, a hand binding ceremony with really pretty cords.
There was a lot of style in that crowd I would love to cop. But where to start? Buy some twine? Slick your hair? Bid high on a horse buckle? I think you start at whatever knocks you out. Whatever makes you stammer and look down at your shoes, or whatever, and say oh wow, how did I ever love you in the first place, that’s where to start. This one wedding guest, she called me over during a break, and took my wrist and pulled me down to talk in my ear, and she pointed at my shoes, which were high, and she said, honey, you don’t have to wear those. That’s not where I thought she was going. She could probably tell that when I accidentally said “thank you.” Good for her. Good for Zappos. Good for us all. Now I can’t stop thinking about Dr. Martens. This is how it starts. It starts with being knocked off your high (wait for it)
It’s been The Frye’s great privilege to play many, many parties this summer. Shed parties. Horse parties. Fancy parties. Could be your party. Inquire: firstname.lastname@example.org.