Heels in Eastern Culture: The East Is Not a Shoe Size
“The East” is a magnificent geographical shortcut. It covers thousands of kilometres, centuries of history and enough distinct traditions to make one generic article title sound faintly ridiculous. Unfortunately, I inherited that title. I shall try to behave better than it does.
This is a story about raised footwear in several different places, not a claim that Japan, Turkey and South Asia all invented the same high heel. They did not. A wooden platform, an embroidered flat slipper and a modern stiletto may all change the way a foot is presented, but the histories behind them are gloriously, inconveniently different.
My affection for beautiful shoes is international. My expertise, alas, is not omniscient. So let us invite actual museum objects into the room.
Japan: elevated, yes. A stiletto, no.
Traditional Japanese geta are wooden sandals, commonly elevated by supports beneath the foot. Their construction and purpose are not identical to those of the modern Western high heel. You can see a late nineteenth- to early twentieth-century example in the Metropolitan Museum of Art's collection. It has a wooden structure and a recorded elevation of the heel area, not a little metal-tipped stiletto pretending to be discreet.
Different forms of elevated footwear have been associated with particular occasions, clothing and social roles. They are not all “geisha shoes.” That phrase tends to swallow an entire history because the internet has learned one Japanese word and become dangerously pleased with itself.
What interests me is the choreography. Some shoes encourage a shorter, more deliberate step. Others change how the wearer balances or how a garment moves. A shoe can be architecture, and walking can become its performance. The relationship between clothing, movement and identity is hardly exclusive to European courts.
I would not recommend trying unfamiliar traditional footwear as a casual stability exercise, incidentally. Admiration is not an exemption from gravity.
Noritaka Tatehana: history turns into a fabulous problem
Japanese designer Noritaka Tatehana offers a fascinating modern answer to elevated footwear. His sculptural, heel-less shoes appear to lift the wearer without an ordinary heel touching the ground. The result looks like a challenge submitted directly to Newton.
The Met's entry for Lady Bloom (2013) explicitly connects Tatehana's form with traditional geta, including elevated lacquered footwear associated with oiran. It also notes a visual relationship to the profile of Western high heels. That's a specific, documented conversation between old and new, rather than a vague claim about “Eastern elegance.”
The designer's gallery biography and catalogue describe his research into traditional footwear and textile arts. He is not merely producing exaggerated stilettos. He is reworking references from particular Japanese traditions into contemporary objects.
If these shoes look impractical, you may be looking at them with a very narrow definition of their job. Some pieces exist to provoke thought, attract attention or perform on a stage. As a man who occasionally chooses a shoe partly because it looks unreasonable, I recognise the professional dedication.
South Asia: embroidery, curved toes and a useful correction
The original version of this article treated traditional mojari almost as if it were another high-heel type. That was misleading. Mojari or khussa can be flat, embroidered footwear, distinctive in shape, materials and cultural context, not simply an Asian variation on a European pump.
The British Museum records a pair of embroidered boys' slippers made in Multan in the 1990s. The collection note describes flat soles, curved pointed toes, metallic embroidery and an association with ceremonial clothing. The museum also records the history and traditions associated with this style, while distinguishing them from a particular object. That is how one writes about a cultural artefact without inventing its autobiography.
The detail I love is the toe. With a beautifully curled tip, the shoe looks perfectly capable of delivering a sarcastic remark without the owner's help. Yet its elegance does not depend on a raised heel. Sometimes the footwear story is about surface decoration and silhouette. We should be honest enough to enjoy both.
Turkish bath clogs: luxury you wouldn't take into the shower
The British Museum's Turkish bath-clog pair is decorated with mother-of-pearl, leather and silver-thread embroidery. Its high wooden structure belongs to a context involving bath houses rather than the cocktail bar or runway.
Even an ordinary bath can acquire class distinctions and ceremonial splendour, it seems. My bathroom slippers are suddenly embarrassed. They should be.
These objects remind us that elevation can serve different purposes: keeping the foot away from wet surfaces, marking status, completing an outfit or changing how a person moves. A universal tale in which all raised shoes are simply “high heels for women” misses nearly everything worth noticing.
What about modern Tokyo, Seoul and the rest of the world?
Modern fashion circulates internationally. Japanese, Korean, Chinese and Middle Eastern designers do not work in sealed historical cabinets, and their customers are not all purchasing national costumes. They buy boots, pumps, platforms, sneakers, designer collaborations and whatever else is currently interesting. Sometimes the interesting thing is deliberately ugly. Fashion has tenure in that department.
I would rather study a named designer, a particular collection or an actual street-style look than announce that “Asian women prefer delicate heels.” Such declarations are often based on two photographs and a strong sense of entitlement.
The same applies to gender. Raised footwear can be associated with authority, performance, femininity, masculinity or tradition depending on the time and place. If that sounds familiar, it should. My History of High Heels traces a different set of historical transitions. And High Heels in Museums shows why original objects are better conversational partners than myths.
A better way to borrow inspiration
Like the shape of a traditional sandal? Learn its name. Find out where it comes from. If you're writing about its history, consult a collection catalogue. If you're borrowing the look for an outfit, say you're taking inspiration rather than claiming to reproduce something authentically.
Contemporary stylists can combine architectural heels with tailored suits, embroidered slippers with loose trousers, and a dramatic platform with simple black clothing. The result may be wonderful. It may also be a disaster. Cultural curiosity does not come with an automatic taste guarantee.
I remain a devoted admirer of elevated shoes, whichever continent invented the particular pair I am admiring. But “the East” is not one wardrobe. And I suspect its many wardrobes would be quite offended to be squeezed into a single shoe box.