THE EXARCHOPOULANTE STORY OF THE
PROUVE QUE TU EXISTES
(And why you'll be telling your children and grandchildren all about it)
Here is the story of Prouve que tu existes. A design dreamed up between fits of laughter and a cushion stained with shakshuka, during an intense session of rocking back and forth on the sofa, while listening to France Gall in a state of transcendental bliss.
It all began on a Sunday the 26th of some month I can no longer remember, somewhere between aperitif hour and denial, as I shared one of those moments when time stands still with my sister, that poetic-biotic creature who talks to plants and dresses as though Saint-Germain-des-Prés had never quite come to terms with Sagan's death.
FRANCE GALL SPOKE TO ME
The music was playing. And suddenly, it happened. “Résiste.” France's voice, as pure as additive-free fromage blanc, rose through the living room and pierced us like an arrow fired from a cloud of milk floating in our White Russian. Instantly, our bodies began vibrating in harmony, like two Tibetan monks who'd caught chickenpox in a nightclub. We rocked back and forth. We rocked so hard that the sofa groaned with memories of orgies past. Our glasses wobbled. The ficus turned towards us of its own accord, visibly moved.
And in that moment of domestic grace, as my sister launched into a choreography consisting entirely of eyebrow movements and vaguely blurred gestures, I had a vision. An epiphany. A slap straight to the prefrontal cortex, courtesy of (Michel) Berger. The shoe. THE SHOE, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!
A golden, or perhaps green, creation, soft and luminous, that would appear to women at the very moment they were about to declare, “I deserve better.”
A pump that would be a declaration of independence, an act of rebellion against dreary loafers and depressing ballet flats.
I grabbed an old TV magazine (probably Télé Star) and started scribbling.
It would have a 7 cm heel: not too high, not too low, just enough to feel above the idiots without getting dizzy.
A champagne colour, to remind us that life isn't something you simply drink your way through. It's something you celebrate by popping the cork.
And a cut so precise you'd swear it had been designed by a robot in love.
« A pump that's a declaration of independence, an act of rebellion against dreary loafers and depressing ballet flats. »
Why “Prouve que tu existes” ? Because that's what we're all doing, isn't it? Every morning, somewhere between two passive-aggressive texts and a cup of instant coffee, we desperately try to prove we're more than just a shadow with an Apple ID.
This design is for women who prefer spectacular mistakes to lukewarm lives. Women who know that sometimes, proving you exist simply means slipping into a pair of shoes far too beautiful for reality, and stepping out into the world anyway.
It's a glitter-covered prayer for the angry sensitive souls, the exhausted sophisticates, the lace-clad badasses.
It's a shoe that whispers: you don't need a permission slip from your parents to be extraordinary.
And France Gall would have approved. Or at the very least, she'd have danced along.
And that's how, in a moment of glorious emotional confusion and perfectly synchronised hip movements, Prouve que tu existes was born.
A shoe created with the audacity of women who refuse to go unnoticed. A weapon of mass persuasion. A standing invitation to set fire to a world that knows better than anyone how to piss us off. I invite you to slip it off gently, with flair, and a cushion beneath your elbow.
Ciao.
« A shoe created with the audacity of women who refuse to go unnoticed. »
