Earlier this fall, I was looking for a new pair of boots, seeking them aimlessly the way a single person looks for the perfect mate - with no idea where to start. I finally scored the perfect pair - tough, black, ankle-length lace-ups with a fringe "kiltie" - at a vintage stall in a market in Brooklyn.
"I guess you restore old boots and put fringe on them?" I asked the seller, Wyzetta Jones. She laughed. "No! These are vintage work boots," she said. "That's the way they come." "Even this is vintage?" I tugged at the kiltie. "They're Justins," the vendor replied. They're what?
Unbeknownst to me until recently, the Justin Boot Company, founded in Texas in 1879, is a major American manufacturer of work boots. I might have been aware of it if I were a) Texan, b) engaged in labour that required actual work boots or c) a regular at rodeos.
But since I'm none of the above, I went online to check the firm out further. Justin Boots has a very active Web presence, including a Facebook page and a Twitter feed, but it's clearly not marketing to me, a city dweller. (Sample question on the Facebook wall: "Ever wondered if your horse has colic?")
So why was I so drawn to them? And what were they doing at a hipster mart in Brooklyn? According to Megan Force, the Fort Worth-based company's media specialist, "our primary target would be those living in the western culture, people who wear western-inspired clothing every day, not just as a fashion item." However, their fan base also includes "people we consider emulators, who think our boots are a cool fashion item," Force says, informing me that my preferred style is called the "lacer" and that Justin has been manufacturing it since the 1950s. I have never considered myself an "emulator," but I guess that's what I am in this case, along with countless others.
The ongoing craze for heritage boots, from the mania over Frye (founded in 1863) and Hunter (1856) to the resurgence of Doc Martens (currently celebrating 50 years of operations with a splashy viral marketing campaign), reflects not only a desire for hard-wearing footwear with a sense of history, but for authenticity. In a fast-fashion landscape, the unchanging nature of heritage products, with their implied old-world quality and detailing, holds great appeal. The fact that brands such as Justin don't court the hipster set - "We try to make an effort as best we can with the fashion crowd," Force says - makes them all the more desirable to many.
According to Jones, the market seller I met in Brooklyn, vintage Justins fly around the world by express mail, brokered by traders like her. These mediated pairs are coveted solely by fashion types seeking trendy items online, many of them unaware, as I was, that Justin still exists in Fort Worth.
"At least 10 people I know personally are buying and selling them online," Jones says, mentioning healthy sales in Toronto as well as Australia, Great Britain and Russia. "Everywhere but Texas," she says.
In that state, Justin's core market, the boots are bought on the ground for the purpose they were actually made: work. Among those buyers, it's likely the sturdy laces and safety toes, rather than kilties, that attract. But even among us casual shoppers, those are selling points, too.
Examining my boots, Jones points out the craftsmanship. "In the eighties, they stopped doing a leather sole and replaced it with a rubber sole," she warns. But Force at Justin offers an update: "Actually, the style we are producing today has a leather sole," she says. After 131 years, brands are allowed to evolve. But it's good to know that back to basics still has meaning.