The Cobbler’s Workshop
We travel to Alcalá to meet Natalia, granddaughter of Francisco, from whom she has learnt the shoemaker’s craft. At over 90, Francisco still practises a trade he learnt at 14 and that has been his livelihood ever since.
In his workshop, Francisco made by hand the shoes that would carry many of his neighbours, making the lasts himself too. Having studied Fine Arts, Natalia tells us how she decided to learn her grandfather’s craft. He still comes down to his old workshop every day, in the back room of the orthopaedic shop his son opened.
Tell me a little about the history of the workshop. What year did it open? Who opened it? Has the trade carried on in the family? Is it still working?
It all started with my grandfather, before he did his military service. He had to find a job, and my great-grandfather had a relative who worked in a shoe workshop and thought it could be a good way to earn a bit of money, so he sent him there. My grandfather didn’t like it; he was there from 14 to 18 and then went to Barcelona to do his military service. When he arrived, someone had told the colonel he was a shoemaker, so the colonel went straight to find him and said:
– Are you a shoemaker?
– Yes, sir, I am.
– Good. Could you do a test tomorrow at 8 in the morning in the shoe shop?
– Yes, sir, of course.
The next day, when he got to the shoe shop, the colonel said:
– Could you last that boot?
My grandfather picked up the hammer, got it ready, and at once the colonel said: “That’s fine, you needn’t do anything else. Report here tomorrow.”
I think that from then on my grandfather began to see the trade differently: something he had not liked at first had become a job that got him better conditions during his military service. Somehow he realised there was more to it than he had first seen.
He used to say he wanted to be a dancer or a boxer (laughs), but he fell in love with my grandmother and decided to come back to Alcalá and set up the shoe workshop. I think he opened it when he was 24, and now he’s 90, so you do the maths…
At first he took on several people to work with him. They made classic shoes, and he specialised in women’s shoes. He’s proud of being a shoemaker; he says that in those days there were plenty of botchers, menders, or people who did one part of the work, but nobody who covered the whole process.
The shoe shop was open for a long time. Years later my father started working with my grandfather, but he didn’t like it. He sold shoes at street markets until he found his place, which was the orthopaedic shop in my grandfather’s old shoe shop, whose workshop still survives in the back room. You could say my father and grandfather merged: my father makes made-to-measure shoes and my grandfather helps him with that part. So in fact my grandfather’s work evolved until it ended up in the world of orthopaedics.
So can we say that, in a way, the trade has carried on in the family?
Yes, in a way, yes. My father is very handy, and what he knew was the world of feet, so he decided to open the orthopaedic shop.
And you?
I always wanted to learn my grandfather’s trade because I’m a romantic… I studied Fine Arts, and during my degree I saw crafts from another angle… I grew up surrounded by craftspeople, because my grandmother was a dressmaker too; I’ve been surrounded by machines since I was little, I’ve smelt the glue, I’ve heard the sound of the machines…
I came to it after studying Fine Arts and recognising my manual skill, and it finally clicked when I realised that in the end it’s design and applied art. And since I have a hard time making a good living (or the living I want) from what I do, the shoes just walked in on their own…
A year and a half ago, when I came back from Brazil, I said it’s now or never. After three years in Latin America I got back here, and while everyone else had been busy building a career, I had been focused on other kinds of things. They were three crucial years for me, in which I learnt to listen to “my own time”, and when I got back I saw that “my own time” and the job market had nothing to do with each other. Nor did I want to rush off to look for work as a designer in Madrid or somewhere else, so after coming back, with no job, what I have is more patience, and I value my roots much more. My grandfather was also 89, so it had to be now or never.
Is that stain on your hands leather dye or something similar?
No (laughs). It’s watercolour, because I still paint. In fact I’d love to end up devoting myself to painting; I spend more and more time on it, but anyway, right now I’m on the shoes.
Does your grandfather still make things in the workshop?
Yes, he still makes things. In fact my grandmother often tells me, “Take him down to the workshop; while he’s making shoes he doesn’t think about anything else.” Then he goes down and I watch him work… He’s 90; he no longer thinks while he works, for him it’s like breathing.
He does it perfectly, but he feels he has lost a lot of his abilities. He often tells me, “If only I’d got into this 20 years ago…”
You’ve told me something already, but could you give us more detail on how, and from whom, your grandfather learnt the trade?
As we said before, he started as an apprentice in a small workshop. He was there four years before leaving to do his military service.
What does it mean to you to have learnt your grandfather’s trade and to carry it on?
For me it means binding myself to my family roots, and after being away for several years I give that real importance. For me it’s like being a channel for something my ancestors took part in; doing it, I feel close to home even when I’m thousands of kilometres away. And in a way it’s also part of my philosophy, because I realise we’re all the same… Look, in Brazil I met a family whose son was called Alecrim, which means Romero (rosemary) in Portuguese, like my surname, and he was learning to make shoes because his family were shoemakers. It’s silly, but I find it really funny. Finding connections like that so far away…
How would you describe this work?
Really, for me craft is a way of thinking. I believe those repeated patterns and those structures create calm and continuity. There’s a certain discipline, it’s organic, and it works… For me, in a way, it’s like a picture of life itself.
I’d describe this work as a functional meditation (laughs), where in the end you make something, and where there’s always a process of learning and of making in which you enjoy yourself and also suffer. Sometimes I enjoy the process and sometimes I don’t; I’m a nervous person and I don’t like nerves. For me patience is a virtue, and I’m chasing it (laughs). Doing this is half enjoyment, half overcoming yourself, and a constant reminder of how things should be done. That’s why I say it’s like a philosophy, isn’t it? A way of thinking. Every part is essential and every detail needs 100% of your sensitivity and your attention. You can’t mess about; you can’t redo a shoe, it demands presence, it teaches you a lot about “being”. That’s why, when I sometimes run out of patience, I have a hard time, but anyway, that’s another exercise.
On the other hand, as an artist, I have the other side. My nerves drive me and they’re useful; they’re useful for drawing. Something very contradictory between my drawing and the shoes is that in drawing I use chance to build, and so far, making shoes, I haven’t got to that point yet; I still can’t leave anything to chance, I have to be very “academic”.
When I learnt to draw I spent three years drawing classically, and now I’ve seen what it was good for, so I’m doing the same with the shoes: I go down with my grandfather and follow strictly the steps he tells me, because I know that one day I’ll be able to flow.
What work is done in the workshop? Repairs? Shoes to order? What has been most in demand, or your main source of work?
All sorts of things are done: putting on heel tips… I’ve seen a lot of heel tips put on, because before, you had your shoes, and when the sole wore out you put on a new one and off you went. That doesn’t happen any more; now when the sole wears out you throw them away and buy new ones… and for 20 euros…
So I’ve seen a lot of heel tips, soles and half soles put on, and shoes shined. My grandfather made shoes until he was eighty-something, but once people started to “use and throw away”, he almost stopped making them; they became a luxury product, or a very niche one.
At first what was made most was shoes to order. People would come and say “I want a shoe like this”, often with a cutting from a magazine. In those days there weren’t many types of shoe; shoes have names: bluchers, gildas, Mary Janes… So people would say I want some gildas in this kind of leather.
When I work with my grandfather, he still thinks in those types of shoe; if I invent a model he says “that can’t be done like that”. Or if I make shoes in several colours I do it behind his back (laughs); for him shoes have to be one colour, black or brown, and fastened with a buckle.
Actually the original patterns are the most comfortable; the new models start from them. They’re like guides or structures that make everything work.
What kinds of materials are used, and with what tools? Where do they come from?
Phew, that’s a whole world. My grandfather has traditionally worked with leather, very good leather. He has many kinds of leather. I notice things like the shine, the colour, the texture; he, on the other hand, considers other things, such as elasticity, thickness, whether it lets water through or not, whether it dyes or stains easily… That’s something I’m learning bit by bit.
Then, soles used to be made of leather too, a thicker leather, or else of rubber. For platforms, cork is used, or a special kind of plastic that is quite rigid but ductile.
Then there are the rivets, the buckles, the thread. And, for example, some curiosities about shoes: to make them keep their shape, a kind of leather is used, or cardboard, which is soaked in a mixture of flour and water, pared down and put between the lining and the leather of the shoe once it has been shaped. Once dry, that middle layer stiffens and the shoe keeps its shape.
Another curious thing is that, although he has machines to do it, my grandfather still uses glass to polish the edges of the soles. He uses wax to make them shine… And, well, he no longer stitches them, but I’ve asked him to teach me to stitch.
As for tools, you need very few: a hammer (there are several kinds), tacks, a zinc board for cutting the leather, some blades, a sewing machine or a needle and thread (laughs), a lathe or sandpaper, glass for polishing the sole… Really, if you don’t want to industrialise, you need very few tools.
You told us there are different kinds of leather. Do you choose one or another depending on the time of year they will be worn, or does that not matter?
Under my grandfather’s philosophy, no; let’s say a pair of shoes would be for the whole year. But I do think some materials and colours suit one time of year better than another. I also think other materials can be treated in other ways. I really want to dig into this and learn. I also want to look for new materials for the soles; I’m very drawn to tyres, how to make use of them. I want to achieve a conscious design. Tyres are the clearest example, but I’m sure new materials will come along, with recycled plastics for example.
Could you explain the process of making footwear by hand? Do you take measurements first? I’ve seen you have “moulds”?
To make a shoe you first need to know the measurements of the foot and find a design. The shoe is made on a last, which can be wood or plastic; the ones we have, my grandfather made of wood. On the last, with paper, you make the pattern, measuring, trying… It all starts by drawing on paper. Then you put the paper on the leather and cut the shape out of the leather; from paper we move to leather. At this step the lining is also prepared, sewing together all the parts you need.
Once you have the pieces cut and sewn, you cut the insole of your shoe and put it on the last to “last” the shoe. Once it is lasted, the sole is glued on and stitched. After that the heel and the heel tip go on, and they are finished. You could dye them too…
How long does it take, and how much does it cost (in materials), to make a pair of shoes by hand?
My grandfather says that at his most productive he could make a pair and a half a day. It takes me three or four solid days to last a single pair (laughs).
In materials, making a shoe with good leather isn’t cheap. Good leather is expensive, and so is a good sole. Good materials cost a lot, and then there’s your time… I think, more or less, between leather and sole, at the very lowest, the minimum cost is 20 or 30 euros.
Have you ever made a shoe model specifically for someone?
Yes, quite a few have been made. Since people found out I’m making shoes, they’ve already asked me for several. And let me tell you something: putting on special shoes is magical. I think of the film The Wizard of Oz… Really, it’s something you put on to walk your own path, and it’s your connection with the earth.
My grandmother, who is a dressmaker, says that to be well dressed you have to have your hair done well and your shoes well made; if your hair and shoes are right, what you wear in between doesn’t matter (laughs).
My father, too, now makes quite a few made-to-measure shoes at the orthopaedic shop. My grandfather still helps my father by adapting the lasts to my father’s customers.
What volume have you handled? Just the village, or have you had orders from elsewhere?
Well, I don’t know; when my grandfather started working, they made a pair and a half a day. It was like a handmade shoe factory. About forty pairs of shoes a month.
Is it possible to make a living from this today?
Well, I’ll soon find out (laughs). I think it depends a lot on how you live. I don’t lead a standard life; it depends a lot on the person… I think it can be done, but it isn’t for everyone. If you’re self-employed… This life isn’t made for the self-employed.
Do your plans for the future include keeping this trade alive?
Yes. At first I wanted to learn so I’d know how shoes are made and to make my own and my family’s, but now I have the perfect circumstances to explore the market and tie shoes to how I make a living. I’m leaving for Colombia soon, and I plan to do a collaborative project with indigenous weavers. My main work will be design, organisation and sales; I’m not going to be a shoemaker the way my grandfather was, because I have other projects and I don’t want to shut myself away in that either.
I’m lucky to have the knowledge, and I want to use it to launch a product. So I’m going to try, thinking of a simple project linked to other things. I’m taking my family to Colombia in the form of shoes (laughs).
When your grandfather opened the workshop, were there other similar workshops in Alcalá or nearby? And other craftspeople? Did they manage to keep going too?
Yes, there was another on the main street of Alcalá. I think in all there were two or three big workshops, and in the end only he was left. My grandfather survived because he did a bit of everything, and that is very hard.
Of other trades, I have the example of my grandmother, who was a seamstress…
Do you think crafts have a future?
I think that, in a way, human beings have created an artificial system, where everything now grows artificially in a “natural” way. A place where machines are already something natural, a contemporary. I think that, the way things are going, we’re going to see several kinds of humans (if there aren’t already): those who will carry on as always, in touch with nature, and those who will be technologically dependent, another kind of human, with other needs, who will communicate in another way…
I think that if crafts live on, they will do so among the first kind of people, and the human being who lives from crafts will lead a more natural way of life, valuing more the things that have always been…
You can follow Natalia’s work on her Instagram account or on her Tumblr.
This is the third article in our series on traditional trades, with which we also aim to make room on our website for intangible heritage, the heritage of our culture, customs and traditions; of everything that makes up our social identity.
If you know someone who still practises a traditional trade and you think they might be interested in telling us their story, please get in touch with us at participa@lugaresmiticosdejaen.com.