Warhol and Shoes of the Past

Whenever I come across one of these Warhol shoe sketches, I can’t help but think of Nikkie.

Nikkie was in her seventies when I met her—a tall, slender woman with sparkling eyes and fine lines adorning her beautiful face. She lived in Brooklyn, in the same house she had shared with her late husband since the early 1980s. Ed had left her suddenly one night in his sleep. Sudden death, they said, as if it isn’t always sudden for those left behind.

Having lost a daughter in childbirth, Nikkie and Ed had only one son, who had been estranged for a long time—living in Goa, or some other far-flung place—seemingly with no intention of returning or maintaining any real connection with the family he deemed too brutal to bear.

I had the chance to visit her home quite a few times as part of some appraisal gigs, since Nikkie was gradually liquidating her art collection, having no apparent means of support after Ed’s passing. I was excited to meet her—no less than she was to meet me. I was eager to take on one of my first cataloging tasks, brimming with naïve enthusiasm, while she relished the opportunity to share her colorful stories with an eager audience. I never regarded Nikkie as just a client; rather, I felt privileged to call her a friend.

Her collection comprised several precious gems—I remember, in particular, a rare small Rubens—but it was one of Warhol’s early shoe drawings that held a special place in her heart. Not only did its whimsical elegance perfectly reflect her playful character, but it also resonated with her lifelong obsession with shoes. And I mean obsession. Her house was practically overflowing with them—shoes of all styles, brands, and even sizes, filling every cabinet, bathroom cupboard, and kitchen shelf. Red, blue, yellow, and green; leather, suede, velvet, and lace; booties and boots, loafers and Mary Janes—you name it, it was there.

Being a budding fashion aficionado myself, I beamed with joy the day I left Nikkie’s house carrying a gift: my very first pair of archive Chanel pumps.

I believe Warhol began these shoe illustrations in 1955, during his early artistic days as a commercial artist at the I. Miller shoe company. At the time, the sketches embellished the pages of The New York Times as part of I. Miller’s advertisements. What is more, his portfolio À la recherche du shoe perdu celebrates the importance of shoes in Warhol’s early career. The title is a playful nod to Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu, with lyrics by Ralph Pomeroy and captions transcribed by his mother, Julia Warhola (or assistants mimicking her handwriting), while Warhol and friends hand-colored the sheets together at impromptu coloring parties. A collection of these sketches sold for $416K at Sotheby’s in the UK in 2016. In contrast, Diamond Dust Shoes (1983), a much later and more refined take on the theme, realized a price of $945K at Christie’s in 2023—I’ve seen similar works available for as low as €110K on Artsy. Quite reasonable, imo.

In Nikkie’s stylish apartment, the drawing held a place of honor in her built-in closet room. There, among the most exquisite pieces of her shoe collection, we spent many afternoons untangling messy memories and shoelaces in equal measure.

When I abruptly left the house where I had been interning (let’s not get into toxic workplace talk right now), I never imagined I’d be leaving Nikkie behind as well. In the chaos of that time, it didn’t even occur to me to contact her. Maybe, subconsciously, I was trying to sever all ties with my old world—I don’t know.

By the time I finally thought to call her on her birthday, I couldn’t get through.

Later, I reconnected with a former colleague who shared surprising news: Nikkie’s son had reappeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to reconnect with his roots and reconcile with his mother.

A few years later, I received an email from an unknown sender. Attached was a photograph—two strong, bare feet, caressed by sea waves on a distant shore, bathed in warm, sunset hues.

Signed by Nikkie, it read:

वयं मम मित्रं मुक्तं कुर्मः।

"We shall run free, my friend."