Tabi Fixation
These shoes cost more than my rent. Let’s try them on.
I am suffering from Tabi Fixation. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you’re lucky. These divisive, split-toe, leather shoes live in my mind rent-free. Dating to 15th-century Japan, Tabis are not Maison Margiela’s exclusive design—though they’re certainly the brand fashion aficionados lust over. You either love ‘em or hate ‘em, with little in-between. No, scratch that—sometimes it’s both emotions at once, coupled with perverse, recurrent daydreams of storming Maison Margiela and emerging much poorer, but chicly shod in leather hooves like a creature from a fairytale. Chloë Sevigny may be a fan, but if Kylie Jenner is papped wearing them, how weird can they truly be?
Looking into the history of the Tabi, I was surprised to find that the term doesn’t even directly refer to a shoe. Rather, the traditional Japanese tabi is a sock designed to be worn with thonged Zori or Geta footwear. Though upper classes originally favored purple Tabi socks, multiple colors eventually became popular to the extent that white tabi socks are most recognizable. As Japan’s tastes shifted during the Meiji Era, western-stule boots were introduced—albeit with the split toe design. Called Jikatabi, these boots featured a sock-like structure with a rubber sole. Taking a peek at photos of the Jikatabi, it’s easy to see where Martin Margiela took his inspiration.
Despite the Tabi’s practical history, our contemporary understanding is firmly high fashion. Margiela’s incarnation of the Tabi first graced runways in Spring/Summer 1989 and, surprisingly, never left. Before stepping into view on their final turn, Margiela models stamped their tabi shoes in a puddle of red paint, tracking crimson hoof prints up and down the runway. The now-iconic house staple has reached new levels of popularity over the last two years, with Gen Z embracing their off-putting appeal in droves. Tabis seem to be everywhere—and nowhere: a sartorial shorthand for a certain shared sensibility. Hoof shoes or highly coveted fashion item? Perhaps, like the legion of Woo types pinning their futures on the frequent appearance of 11:11, I am summoning the Tabis forth out of the ether.
The separation of the toes is linked to promoting better balance, and according to SSENSE, separating the toes is “connected to your sense of self.” Sporting the Tabi certainly takes a level of self-assurance, and let me tell you—living in Paris, you need all the talismans for personal style you can get. Despite its designation as the capital of fashion, Paris is not known for being experimental. Here, effortlessness and conformity is the paradigm of chic. Heaven forbid you try. If I don’t keep a lid on it, Paris has the possibility to unleash all my sartorial insecurities. Fit in, Paris whispers. Be more French. Whatever that even means…Yet Margiela’s Tabi somehow seems to play within the bounds of acceptable, despite being deeply weird.
I can’t put my finger on the exact moment when my perception clicked from confusion to inspiration, but a shift has definitely occurred. Price tags aside, I’m not exactly a Tabi girl. Some days, I wonder if it’s noticeable I love fashion at all. It’s hard to tell whether my passion for outlandish style faded from my day-to-day looks onto mood boards in response to always feeling so dang cold or the panopticon of scrutiny, but high fashion, ugly-chic has never been my aesthetic. Perhaps my interest in the Tabi is rooted in the uncanny—it’s a very normal shoe. Until it’s not.
After the fashion clique walked into my Thursday class sporting Margiela Tabi Flats, my mind was set. If those spoiled 19 year olds can buy them, surely I can try them on. On a sunny Sunday, I marched down to Printemps to survey the various options and the options did indeed abound. Circling the display podiums, there were tabis of every size, shape, and style. Lavender! Butter yellow! Off white crackle! Gunmetal! Black patent leather! Ballerina flats! Boots! Mary Janes! Loafers! Sandals! Every possible incarnation of a Tabi you could imagine was there.
Despite guessing I wasn’t walking away with a pair of thousand euro shoes, the sales associate agreed to let me try them on. “They’re the most comfortable shoes I own,” she assured me. Starting with white leather Tabi Boots that reminded me of 60s Go-Go boots for a centaur, I progressed to the classic black in a supple leather. Sliding my foot into the boot, I couldn’t figure it out. They were the right size: not too big or slightly too small…and yet I couldn’t figure out how to wriggle my toes in properly. On my third attempt, something clicked and my foot slid comfortably into place. She was right. They were comfortable. Weird, but comfortable.
Feeding the teeth into the elastic closure, I buttoned the boot up past my ankle and pranced to the mirror. They were something. Suddenly, I was reimagining my entire wardrobe finished off with a pair of Tabis. Comfortable, chic, but terribly strange, I wanted them. I wanted them so badly I began doing mental math on the level of an Olympic gymnast: I could, maybe, if…No, I could not, should not, would not. Not until I reach the Tabi tax bracket, anyway.
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