The Shoemaker

“Him that makes shoes go barefoot himself.” - Burton—Anatomy of Melancholy. Democritus to the Reader. P. 34. (Ed. 1887).

Look at these beauties. I traded for these chairs... it was a good trade.  She got four Russell Wrights and I got two Albinis. I did not know that they were Albinis at the time.  I was looking for something "fun" for my daughter's room.  I want to go back, to the day that I bought them before I discovered that they were Albinis when they were just cute and retro and perfect for her room.  I want to go back to the second that I clicked on the site where I saw another broken Albini child's chair with no upholstery sell online for more than my car is worth.  Because in the very next second,  I leapt from the computer petrified and stumbling down the hall just in time to witness my daughter poised one-legged on a leaning Albini trying to get a dress out of the closet. I reprimanded her for not innately knowing what whack switch had flipped in her mother while lovingly moving the pair to a corner of the living room where I thought I could "keep an eye" on them. I have spent the bulk of a very protective year now witnessing things like my naked one year old straddling the chairs like a water skier holding a spoonful of peanut butter in one hand and a grape filled metal Ferrari in the other while pounding them both on the fragile wicker loops on the back.  Screw it, it is time to sell -  they are going to perish in my home.  I am tired of my failed attempts at conveying to any overweight guest that the American Empire rocker is much more comfortable than the tiny wicker child's chair and could they please eat their f***ing Krispy Kremes on grown up furniture before they kill the iconic Albini.  They are a pair. They are a very rare pair.  They are a very rare pair of children's chairs. They are a very rare pair of Franco Albinis with the original sparkly atomic vinyl and they deserve better than this shoemaker.