A controversial new shoe has entered the chat.

And by “shoe,” I mean a suggestion of a shoe. A whisper of a shoe. A heel that went on a diet and lost its entire sense of purpose.

Chanel debuted its Cruise 2027 collection in Biarritz, and among the floaty fabrics and effortlessly chic “I summer in the South of France” vibes came this. A sandal with no sole. Just a little material hugging the heel, held together by two delicate straps, as if the rest of the shoe simply gave up mid-design and wandered off to find itself.

I have questions.

Where does the foot go?

Is this a shoe, or is it a conceptual art piece about the idea of walking? Is it meant to cradle your heel while the rest of your foot raw-dogs the pavement? Is this what happens when minimalism finally snaps?

Because last I checked, the defining feature of a shoe was a sole. Not in a philosophical sense (though we’ll get there), but in a very practical, please don’t let me step on a rogue Lego sense.

And yet, here we are.

Fashion, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that what we’ve all been missing is less shoe. Not better shoe. Not more comfortable shoe. Not even wildly impractical but visually stunning shoe. No. Less. Shoe.

It seems like they had a budget meeting and the sole did not make the cut.


Now, to be fair, high fashion has always lived in that delicious space between brilliance and “are you absolutely kidding me?” It pushes boundaries. It challenges norms. It asks us to reconsider what is wearable, what is art, what is foot-adjacent.

But this?

This feels personal.

Because somewhere, someone sat in a room and said, “What if we removed the part of the shoe that touches the ground?” And instead of being gently escorted out, they were applauded. Possibly promoted.

And somewhere else, someone will buy this shoe.

Because of course they will.

They will wear it with confidence and a linen set and a story about how it’s “deconstructing traditional footwear paradigms.” They will sip something sparkling and stand very still, because movement feels ambitious in a heel with no structural support system.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are left wondering if we’ve officially run out of ideas.

Or maybe this is where the psychologistmimi in me softens just a touch.

Because what if this isn’t about shoes at all?

What if this is about how far we can stretch identity before it snaps? How much we can strip away and still call something by its original name? At what point does a shoe stop being a shoe and become a heel with a PR team?

We do this, don’t we? In life. In work. In relationships. We keep removing pieces such as boundaries, substance, and rest until we’re left with something that technically still functions, but barely.

A version of ourselves held together by metaphorical straps, hoping no one notices the missing foundation.

So yes, I will absolutely make fun of the shoe. I will question its utility, its sanity, its ability to survive a New York sidewalk.

I will also, however reluctantly, respect its audacity.

Because it takes a certain kind of confidence to show up half-finished and declare yourself complete.

Still.

If I’m spending that kind of money, I would like the full shoe. Sole included. Preferably something that does not double as a vague threat to my balance, my dignity, or my podiatrist’s schedule.

But hey, what do I know?

I’m just someone who likes her shoes with a little more soul.