PIERRE HARDY

The Fun House Awaits

This piece originally appeared in the New York Times in 2010.

LIKE any Frenchman worth his fleur de sel, the new Pierre Hardy boutique immediately poses challenging questions.

Like, where is it?

Monsieur Hardy, an intriguing artist on several fronts, came to shoes after scholarly forays into fashion illustration, dance and scenography. In the store literature, he proclaims that he eschews nostalgia and history, preferring to find inspirations for his futuristic footwear through design and conceptual art.

In an architectural sense, the shop is so understated as to be virtually invisible: a wall of dark topaz glass is inset several feet from the sidewalk, with no identifying markings. This is the kind of cold, tinted slickness generally preferred by military contractors around Arlington, Va. At first glance, the shop might be the front office for an international weaponry brokerage, an illegal plastic surgery cult or perhaps an entertainment law office-slash-sex dungeon. The (presumed intentional) effect is to cause the shopper to question her own validity. Should she potentially corrupt the space inhabited by these rarefied shoes by insinuating herself into it, or should she should let all her credit cards slide from her fingers into the middle of West Fourth Street, lie down on them and succumb to a coma of existential ambivalence?

M. Hardy’s aesthetics of disinvitation are reaffirmed by the fact that there does not appear to be an actual door. Getting inside requires more than galvanizing a certainty of one’s metaphysical being; the determined shopper is forced to hurl her full body weight across panels of amber glass until a secret hinge eventually yields, allowing her to stumble inside, stripped of pride and balance. It is a somewhat Masonic experience; you realize that there were no witnesses to your fall from grace because everyone who works there seems to be somewhere in the back, and it’s really dark in there (and therefore grace arguably never hath left you).

The floors are black leather strips cut and arranged to resemble wood planks; the benches are black powder-coated industrial I-beams. Gray shoebox-size cubes appear to have crystallized like raw lithium formations in corners of the space. This is where constellations of M. Hardy’s signature items are displayed: unisex suede desert boots ($490) and high-top sneakers with Velcro ankle straps, in kicky flavors like heathery flannel, charcoal patent leather, gold lamé ($520).

ANOTHER STOLEN PAINTING! “Spock in Pearls” Cintra Wilson 2021

The staff, once inspired to participate, is particularly lovely and laid-back in that casually hospitable, elegant French way — no fussiness or pretense, and a rather effortless way of dealing with customers.

At one point, I heard thumping and fluttering and looked toward the street, thinking that perhaps a rash of adolescent doves had performed a group suicide against the window. But no. An incognito Andy Samberg and a comely model-slash-actress seemed to be leaving mime handprints all over the glass, apparently having the same problem I had with the Zen koan of the doorless door. We watched in silence until they passed the initiation and lurched inside.

I stalked the couple for about 10 minutes before realizing that despite a distinctly Sambergian hair, face and parka combination, this young man was an imposter, who had obviously lured his comely date into the (Pierre) Hardy of Darkness hoping that the dearth of lighting would cause her to continue to believe that he were actually Andy Samberg.

Drawing my attentions back to the footwear, I began to recognize a theme. Many styles for both sexes featured grommet portholes along the sides, laced through with a leather thong: a Ricardo Montalban, Gucci-style loafer in creamy gunmetal suede, for example, featured a Top-Sider bow instead of the classic business tassel. A variation on a women’s shoe I originally dubbed the J-Lo Desert Storm Bootie, a kind of ersatz combat-Timberland with a wooden stiletto heel, had been whimsically retooled into a tactical boot-slash-boating pump, dysfunctional for both armed conflict and yachting.

It was finally explained to me that I was looking at the Cruise collection, which helped me to appreciate M. Hardy’s masterful redesign of the classic jute-soled espadrille ($660), a Cubist red patent wedge with an ankle strap, designed to elongate the leg. They were so tall, I thought they’d be difficult to wear even in a motel bed, but M. Hardy winds a lovely way about the human foot. Even the sight of my own toes was such a pleasant experience I reasoned that they probably weren’t mine. (It was awfully dark in there.)

There were instances of particular beauty — a collection of evening pumps had tiny suede straps webbed about the arch in a kind of beaux-arts crocodile pattern, sprayed all over with such tiny Swarovski crystals as to appear condensed with dew — but the best of show, IMHO, was a highly versatile pair of men’s black patent loafers. These were stripped down and totally elegant, like a vintage car with what low-rider enthusiasts call a “shave job” — all extraneous hardware and chrome is removed from the car, which is then covered in putty and sanded down to its purest shape. It’s the one shoe I’ve seen that I thought could stroll from Levi’s to pinstripes to tuxedo without breaking stride.

Pierre Hardy offers elite, leisure-class footwear for those with enough passive income to support actual leisure time, and such leisurely delicacies as $520 sneakers. The rest of us may find exiting the store a bit less painful than entering, and live to fight another day.

Pierre Hardy

30 Jane Street (West Fourth Street); (646) 449-0070.

HARDY BOYS Pierre Hardy’s new boutique features nimbly architectural, unisexy footwear for the romping dandies and fatal femmes.

NANCY DROOL Prepare to be lulled into dropping over $500 for conceptual jet-set froufrou that is more decorative than on deck.

MYSTERIES As Diane Keaton might say, the space “has such marvelous negative capability.” Bring night-vision goggles to fully appreciate it.

CINTRAW@GMAIL.COM. Full service editing, all the time.