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The Life-Changing Magic of Clogs
From platform mules and tasselled sandals in the summer to stacked-heeled Doc Martens spinoffs and fleece-lined boots of every length in the rain and the snow, it’s a clog world. Photograph by Camera Press / Redux
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This past November, when I was informed that my job had been eliminated, I did not cry. Instead, I was overcome with a throbbing numbness, a dull sensation of suppressed pain that settled in my bones. That night, I slept fitfully, and I woke up feeling no less disoriented. I served myself tequila for breakfast.
In slightly better shape a day later, I felt ready to take the logical next step. It was with nothing short of mania that I bounded into the No.6 flagship store, located on an alley-like street in Little Italy, and announced that I was ready for my clogs. The shop girls, a jumble of attenuated limbs and stringy hair, tolerated me with a spirit of resigned professionalism. One of the helpers informed me that they strongly discourage the wearing of socks; the other watched me try on a beautiful navy suède boot. “Your toe should kiss the end of the clog, not bang into it,” she told me. We determined that I was banging, not kissing, and went one size up.
The clog, comfortable on levels both physical and spiritual, has for me come to stand for an existence untethered to the corporate grind. Clog life is not lived off the grid but grid-adjacent. It’s a fuzzy, fancy realm, littered with alpaca sweaters, Rachel Cusk novels, and trees that grow indoors, in charmingly primitive ceramic pots. Yotam Ottolenghi cookbooks have a place in Clog Life. So do St. Vincent albums, school pickups, and self-care. Eager to assume my rightful place on Planet Clog, I handed over my credit card to one of the No.6 employees. The price was more than any freelance writer without a single assignment should allow herself to spend on a pair of shoes. But I’d worry about the money later. For now, I needed to step out into my cloggy future.
The clog has long borne witness to human suffering. In the summer of 2011, a team of Dutch archeologists travelled to the village of Middenbeemster, a region best known for its medium-hard white cheese and whose church and adjoining cemetery were being relocated. The group noticed an unusual pattern in the bones of five hundred skeletons, mostly belonging to nineteenth-century Dutch dairy farmers: a preponderance of chips and craters localized in the bones of the feet. Some of the craters were the size of a jellybean, others as large as a piece of Hanukkah gelt, or even a plum. “It was as if chunks of bone had just been chiselled away,” an astonished-sounding Andrea Waters-Rist, Ph.D., one of the group’s co-leaders, said. Her team determined that the micro-traumas were associated with osteochondritis dissecans, a rare type of joint disorder that is linked to overuse or sustained shock. The academics concluded the source to be the rigors of working on the land, and, more specifically, doing so in klompen, the wooden clogs common to Dutch farmers of the time.
In the centuries that followed, shoemakers vastly improved on the clog’s design, and wooden uppers are all but unheard of. Bulbous shoes with wooden heels have gone from podiatric armor for European field workers to a signifier of bicoastal creative-class bohemianism, the heirloom cherry on top of the modest-fashion sundae. Chloë Sevigny, Lena Dunham, Kim Gordon, and Michelle Williams are all members of the clogerati. Walk around Venice Beach, or Boerum Hill, or any neighborhood buzzing with attractive folks who are in the business of making things—often other people’s tastes—and behold the explosion playing out at ground level. From platform mules and tasselled sandals in the summer to stacked-heeled Doc Martens spinoffs and fleece-lined boots of every length in the rain and the snow, it’s a clog world.
Defined as any shoe with a wooden sole, a clog is generally wanting in the sex-appeal department. Its charms, such as they are, likely would have eluded the Kennedy sisters or Carrie Bradshaw (though Sarah Jessica Parker’s new shoe line, SJP, features the clog-inspired “Rigby,” retailing for three hundred and eighty-five dollars). What it lacks in mainstream beauty it makes up for in emotional charge. Christian Louboutin, the designer of cult sky-high red-soled stilettos, stands at the head of the clog deniers. “I love flats. I’m not speaking of clogs, all right? No clogs, please,” he said on the Fat Mascara podcast. “When you hear the sound of someone coming, when you hear high heels, you imagine something immediately. When you hear clogs, what do you imagine? A donkey!” Still, at a moment when our First Lady invites ridicule by showing up to scenes of national disaster in pristine Manolo Blahnik stilettos, and when the billionaire captains of Silicon Valley industry are wearing Allbirds—furry-looking merino-wool sneakers—the time seems ripe for the reconsideration of a shoe that resembles a member of the squash family.
Much in the way that it has suddenly become fashionable to swaddle our toddlers in costly burlap-like linens and sepia-hued ensembles befitting street urchins, adult women are opting to slip into footwear that gestures at the rough-hewn and the handmade. “It connects to a kind of boho peasantry; it speaks to this kind of rural past,” Elizabeth Semmelhack, the senior curator at the Bata Shoe Museum, in Toronto, says of the clog phenomenon. “Fashion is always intimately intertwined with the politics of any given moment. It doesn’t surprise me that we would be leaning back into a nostalgia for a better time.”
The ancient Romans wore them in their bathhouses, and the Japanese fashioned Geta shoes—the elevated clog and flip-flop hybrids, seen in eighteenth-century woodcuts and contemporary street-style photographs. European farmers, including the Dutch and the English, favored closed-toe clogs for their protective powers in difficult working conditions. Wooden shoes were memorialized in the French painter Jean-François Millet’s “The Gleaners,” from 1857, which depicts a trio of peasants toiling in the fields in their clogs. The shoe came to prominence in America during the Depression and the Second World War, when leather was scarce. Boho-chic crowds of the early nineteen-seventies adopted the clog. The new iteration of the shoe had a leather upper and, often, an exaggerated heel that paired to marvellous effect with hot pants.
More recently, Christopher Kane and Balenciaga have featured clogs on their runways, and newfangled versions from designers like Rachel Comey, Anya Hindmarch, and Malone Souliers are available on luxury e-commerce sites. Several American companies, including the Chisago City, Minnesota–based Sven, as well as Dansko—known for its unapologetic male-nurse aesthetic—are devoted to the shoe. It is indisputably the New York-based brand No.6, though, that has conferred high-style status on the clunker. Founded in 2005 by the stylist Karin Bereson and Morgan Yakus (who has since left the company in order to pursue a career as a past-life regression coach), the No.6 label is sold at high-end shops, such as Barneys and Bird, the chain of Brooklyn boutiques where all the au fait moms purchase their expensive jumpsuits and garbage-bag dresses. A friend who recently took a spiritual vacation in Mexico City texted to tell me she’d spotted No.6 merchandise at a chichi boutique near her hotel.
The clog, comfortable on levels both physical and spiritual, has for me come to stand for an existence untethered to the corporate grind. Clog life is not lived off the grid but grid-adjacent. It’s a fuzzy, fancy realm, littered with alpaca sweaters, Rachel Cusk novels, and trees that grow indoors, in charmingly primitive ceramic pots. Yotam Ottolenghi cookbooks have a place in Clog Life. So do St. Vincent albums, school pickups, and self-care. Eager to assume my rightful place on Planet Clog, I handed over my credit card to one of the No.6 employees. The price was more than any freelance writer without a single assignment should allow herself to spend on a pair of shoes. But I’d worry about the money later. For now, I needed to step out into my cloggy future.
So, if you want to stand out from the crowd and make a bold statement, the gift mascot hoodie is the perfect choice for you..
Reviews for "Stay Cozy and Stylish with the Gift Mascot Hoodie"
- John - 2 stars - The Admire the gift mascot hoodie was a huge disappointment for me. The material felt cheap and scratchy, not at all what I was expecting for the price I paid. The fit was also off; it was way too big in some areas and too small in others. I was really looking forward to wearing this hoodie, but unfortunately, it just didn't live up to my expectations.
- Emily - 1 star - I bought the Admire the gift mascot hoodie and I regretted it immediately. The design looked cute online, but in person, it was poorly printed and faded. The hoodie itself felt flimsy and didn't provide much warmth. To top it off, the sizing was completely off, making it uncomfortable to wear. I would not recommend this hoodie to anyone.
- Mike - 2 stars - I ordered the Admire the gift mascot hoodie and was really disappointed with the quality. The stitching was uneven and started to come undone after just a few wears. The hoodie itself felt thin and didn't hold up well in colder weather. For the price I paid, I expected much better quality. I won't be buying from this brand again.
- Sarah - 2 stars - The Admire the gift mascot hoodie was a letdown for me. The fabric was not as soft as I had hoped and it felt like it would shrink after washing. The fit was also strange, the sleeves were too long while the body of the hoodie was too short. Overall, it was not a comfortable or flattering hoodie to wear. I would not recommend it.