Craftsmanship

I have a confession. The first pair of handmade Italian shoes I ever owned did not fit. They were beautiful—oxblood cordovan, hand-stitched welts, a last so elegantly elongated they looked like sculpture on the shelf. I had saved for months. I had read the forums. I had convinced myself that discomfort was simply the price of admission…

I have a confession. I used to think silk was silk. I would run my fingers across a scarf in a boutique, feel that familiar slipperiness, and nod knowingly. Italian, the tag said. Pure silk. I believed it the same way I believed in the handbag I carried for three years—the one that wasn’t what it claimed…