The Story Behind the Art.

The rhythmic, fast-paced clicking and tapping of metal heels dancing against stone.

For the first time in so long, I look at the world around me rather than just into my mind.

Red Shoes.

High-heeled, red glossy shoes.

Hypnotic.

Red shoes on small delicate feet, flowing from long, slender legs covered in crisscross black fishnet stockings. Red Shoes on legs dancing wild and free.

“Where are those red shoe’s going, why are they dancing?” my mind asks, waking up to the world again.

 I shake my head. I’ve been trying to ignore the voice in my head, the one that’s been weighing me down. But something about those shoes triggers a memory—bold and powerful, stirring something deep within me.

So, I follow.

 “I hate her outfit” my mind spits out, stubborn and petty.

“It’s Just a black trench coat, so elegantly cut” I chastise it “Can you really say you hate it? Why be so cruel?”. The voice falls silent.

I stumble, my hand brushes the cobblestones as I gain my balance. My right lace has left its tight knot, trailing behind my crips, white trainers. A black stain has appeared on my toe, spreading out like a spider with 8 long legs. A small boy to the side of me giggles. I giggle too. The sound is foreign, but so joyful, bubbling up from a place I thought was long forgotten. It ignites a new forgotten energy.

Energy.

The woman dancing in those shoes radiates energy—unrestrained, magnetic, and utterly free.

Paris has energy too. It’s a living museum of buildings, a blend of past and present, where cobblestone streets meet rows of with lollipop trees. There’s a frisson, an attitude, a style. It’s a place where you could wake up and laugh for no reason at all.

A red Windmill looms in the distance, framing a woman wearing a T-Shirt that reads “Fuck Aging”. She could be fifty or hundred: nobody cares, except her.

The red shoe’s stop outside a café, one tapping on the pavement as a cigarette appears in her hand. A waiter waits, caught in the moment, staring into her rawness. Passersby - women and men – glance at her, some wanting to be her, others desiring to make love to her. She nods and smiles, waiting. The waiter waits too.

She sips from a delicate China Cup the waiter gently placed before her, hoping for a smile.

“S'asseoir” she says to me as I stand stare. I now this word means “sit”

“Revenir” she adds in French. I curse my younger self for not learning another language. We English can be so full of ego.

She slips off her coat.

 I stare.

Nestled in her bosom is a sleeping, pink flamingo, dozing peacefully in the folds of her black, white and grey skirt, as if it were it’s nest. As she flicks back her head, red and black feathers spring out, exploding from her, bright yellow flowers spring into the air,  filling it with the scent of Jasmine. A black, furry tail flicks out from beneath her skirt, delicately touching  my hand. She smiles at my shock. Now I know who she is.

“Revenir” she repeats in French as I frown. “Come back” she says again, this time in flawless English. I stay frozen, the fearful creature I’ve become since what my mother calls my “trauma”.

She is the exact opposite of me. She is a riot of life, vibrant and unafraid. How did I not see it before? I’ve met her so many times in my dreams. I called for her.

“I don’t want to” I say, tears welling in my eyes.

 “You chose to be in this world”, she reminds me, tapping her shoe with quiet authority.

The flaming flamingo stirs in her lap, nestling deeper into her bosom, cooing softly like a newborn baby.

“You choose it when you were a soul” she says, stroking the bird’s neck, whilst looking deep into my eyes.

“I’m scared” I say.

“I know,” she says, softly but firmly.” Staying tight in a bud is more painful than risking trying to blossom”

She smiles into my tears, her kindness cutting through the wall of fear I’ve built.

She taps her red shoes and sips the last of her drink. As she stands, ready to  leave, she suddenly turns and blows me a kiss. The kiss land’s gently on my brow, and I feel it’s warmth bloom within in, a feeling of infinite joy. I smile – a real smile- for the first time in so long I’d forgotten I know how.

“Au revoir de ton ange gardien, goodbye from your guardian angel” she sings in her soft French Accent, and the fear that had gripped my throat melts away.

I inhaled deeply, feeling life rush back into me. Curiosity bloomed where fear once lived. My eyes followed her red shoes, dancing once more, and for the first time, I wondered how I might dance through my life—free, unafraid, and ready to step boldly into my own rhythm. She was right. It was time to return to the world, to grow, to live again.

A week later, I stood in front of a shop window, catching my reflection. The memory of her red shoes echoed in my mind, a playful thought flickering at the corners of my smile.

“Well,” I said to Marie beside me, glancing down at my reflection, “I never thought I’d say this, but these red shoes may just save my soul—even if I still can’t say the same about my outfit.”

Maire laughed, and I joined in, realising how far I’d come—not just in finding my confidence, but in reclaiming my sense of humour, my joy. Perhaps next on the list was a new outfit, but for now, the red shoes would do.