Footwear design is not just about trends or function—this post explores how color influences the process of designing shoes and the creative decisions a footwear designer faces from concept to creation.
Shoe designing in Black and White
Color plays a significant role in art, in any form of art. It influences emotion, perception, and how a viewer or a wearer connects with the piece. However, when I come up with a shoe design or when I work on a sculpture, the very first image that appears in my mind is always black and white. Pure form. The silhouette. For me, the starting point of designing shoes is not color. It’s the shape—one plane cutting into another, one curve emerging from another curve. That moment of creation has nothing to do with color. Color, for me, comes much later. It’s secondary.
I'm deeply immersed in the structure when I work on a new piece, especially in footwear design. I think in three dimensions, not in palettes. I touch the leather, I bend it, I observe how it reacts to pressure or to heat. I don’t ask myself, “Should this be red?” I ask myself, “Can I shape this heel so that it supports and frames the foot in exactly the right way? Will this upper cut align with the movement of the foot and make it feel free, secure, and graceful?” In those moments, I almost forget that color even exists. It becomes invisible.
And yet, no designer shoes exist without it. Materials have their tone, even natural ones. Even vegetable-tanned leather has a presence, a shade. And when that prototype is in my hands, especially when it is made specially following unique foot features of one of my clients, the one that came from sketches, trials, failed attempts, late-night stitching, and sometimes a lot of swearing, suddenly, color walks in. Because color is always there in the material. It becomes unavoidable.
Footwear is a sculpter for me
That’s where the tension begins. In my design process, I’m pulled in two directions. On one side, there’s the pure artistic part of designing shoes—my urge to treat them as objects of expression, as sculpture, as wearable architecture. On the other side, there’s reality. Shoes are not just to be seen—they are to be worn. And worn means chosen. And most people—especially women—choose shoes design not only based on shape or uniqueness but also based on what fits their daily lives, their clothes, their mood. Whether we like it or not, color speaks the loudest first.
So, as a bespoke footwear designer, I need to listen to that practical side too. I need to know how to control it. I need to make sure the color doesn’t fight with the form, doesn’t cover up the volumes I’ve shaped so carefully, doesn’t make the foot look heavier or wider. And I have to remember—most of the time, a woman doesn’t want her shoes to talk too loudly. Even when the form is daring and sculptural, the color often needs to be quiet, supportive, and subtle. This is a paradox I constantly live with.
That doesn’t mean I avoid color. No. It means that in my world of footwear design, color must serve the form. Always. It must highlight the structure, bring attention to a twist in the line, or softly disappear so the shape becomes the center. Sometimes I choose bold colors exactly to break the form, to wake it up or to add tension. But only when it feels right. Not to follow trends. Not to please a commercial demand. But because it supports the story of the shoe.
Shoe design is about storytelling
And yes, every shoe design I create tells a story. For me, designing shoes is like storytelling—but through curves, proportions, and textures. When I finally choose the color, it’s because it adds meaning to the story. Maybe it brings contrast, maybe softness. Maybe it’s neutral because the woman who wears the shoe is the one who will bring the color into the picture—through her movement, through her voice, through the place she’s walking into. That’s what I love the most about making designer shoes. The meaning doesn’t end with me. It continues with the person who will live in them.
Sometimes I ask myself, can a decorative element exist just for decoration? Technically, yes. But for me? That’s too easy. Too boring. I need the details to have a function. I want the stitch that holds the upper to the lining to also define a visual line. I want the curve of the topline to feel sensual and also hold the foot securely. This is the kind of harmony I seek in my designing process. Everything must work. Everything must belong. Even the color.
I think the biggest challenge as a footwear designer is to balance all these layers: function, form, emotion, and practicality. Sometimes I get obsessed with the heel. I keep reshaping it, sanding it down, changing the pitch until it speaks the same language as the upper. And then suddenly I see it—it needs a touch of color. Just one stripe of something different to break the tension or to point the eye toward the direction of the movement. That’s how I use color. Not to fill space. But to underline the rhythm.
There are no rules here, only instincts. The longer I work in shoe design, the more I trust those instincts. They come from years of failing, trying, correcting, and understanding. From making hundreds of prototypes. From seeing the shoes worn and walked in. From making mistakes, fixing them, and sometimes falling in love with the mistakes themselves. Because those mistakes often bring surprises—and sometimes, they become the most beautiful part of the shoe.
So do I wait for inspiration when I work on a new footwear design? No. I start. I sit down with leather or paper, with shoe lasts, with tools. I draw. I cut. I mess things up. And somewhere in that mess, something appears. Maybe it’s a silhouette I’ve never seen before. Maybe it’s a strange curve. And yes, maybe at some point, color walks in. Late, but always in its own time.
In the end, designing shoes is a process of uncovering, not imposing. The shoe already exists somewhere—it’s my job to find it. To carve it out of sketches and leather scraps. And when it finally appears, complete with shape and color and texture and soul—that’s the moment that makes all of it worth it.
That’s the real beauty of craftsmanship and design in footwear. It's not about making one perfect pair. It’s about bringing something alive. Something that holds a story, carries a person, and walks into the world with them.