A Lord of the Dancers

Gonzalo Duran speaks about the shoes he makes as if they were his children. See those boots of worn, gray leather? the diminutive shoemaker asks at his cluttered shop in a garage behind his home in Boyle Heights. Those boots danced a polka for Don Francisco on “Sabado Gigante,” the popular variety show on Spanish-language television.

Every pair tells a story in this old-fashioned workshop with its vintage Singer sewing machines and foot molds made in Mexico. A rickety wooden rack holds several pairs of tap shoes in suede of shocking colors--hot pink and purple. Those are going to dance in Oregon, he says proudly of his American creations. And over there, those mod black ankle boots once kept beat to a credible “Hard Day’s Night” during a Beatles tribute show.

“The sound you get is from my shoe,” says Duran, who has fashioned footwear by hand for 40 years in his Latino immigrant neighborhood just east of downtown. “The dancers may guide them, but my shoe gives it the flavor.”

Duran is part of a vanishing breed of craftsmen--cobblers who design and create footwear by hand. With scarred and calloused fingers, he draws outlines of his customers’ feet on plain white paper, then cuts out their tailored shape from large sheets of leather, leaving scraps like cookie dough with holes in it. Special instructions are written on yellow Post-it Notes, such as “Customer wears orthotics due to surgery.”

The Mexican immigrant has built a reputation for his flamenco and folklorico shoes, but he also takes custom orders for “Star Trek” enthusiasts and Elvis impersonators. Customers come from as far away as Fresno and Santa Barbara for a pair of Duran’s shoes, crafted to fit like slippers and last like cowboy boots. They may not be the finest shoes in the world, some clients say, but they are among the most comfortable and durable.

Like a character from central casting, Duran, 78, looks the part of the little old shoemaker from the Old World. Neatly dressed and bespectacled, with a playful gleam in his eyes, Duran whistles as he shuffles slowly around his workshop with the aid of an aluminum walker. The device is a sign of his ailing health, along with the custom shoes he made for himself, with elastic instead of laces to allow for swelling in his feet. Since being hospitalized in September for kidney failure, Duran has been receiving dialysis regularly. His wheelchair is at the ready for longer treks, folded up in his shiny new pickup truck.

But he curses the contraptions, which now keep him from enjoying a waltz or danzon, as he and his wife used to do at neighborhood dances with their favorite seniors club, Amistad y Alegria, or Friendship and Happiness.

“I’d like to get rid of this thing,” Duran says, taking a seat in his small office and pushing the walker away with frustration. “I’ve got too many things to do.”

Isabel, his wife of 59 years, wants her husband to stop designing new shoes. The former seamstress worries that his hands are not as steady as they used to be, so the blade slips and slices his fingers when he’s cutting patterns. His two workers, who have been with him for more than 12 years, won’t let him operate the heavier machines, for his own safety.

“They don’t let me do anything anymore,” he grumbles.

Duran has been doing business in this barrio for 39 years, the last 12 at his current location on East 4th Street, which he bought as an empty lot. The walls of his small office, which is just off a bedroom, are covered from floor to ceiling with photos of his customers, including a few celebrities.

Duran has made shoes for Los Lobos, the Chicano rock band, and for Adam West, the original TV Batman. Michael Flatley, the flamboyant “Lord of the Dance,” autographed his photo with a dedication to “The World’s Greatest Shoemaker.”

Flatley would pull up in a limousine outside the modest shop, recalls Duran, peeking out his open frontdoor to re-create the surprise of seeing the luxury vehicle make a stop in the blue-collar neighborhood. One time, Flatley ordered 11 pairs of dance shoes and rewarded the shoemaker with prime seats to one of his shows.

Making Footwear for Grass-Roots Clientele

Most of Duran’s clientele, though, is grass roots. He makes boots for folklorico groups from nearby schools, for local mariachi singers and ensembles and for the area’s professional flamenco dancers. Sadly, his wall also includes a small snapshot of the late Maria Isabel Fernandez, a lovely teenage flamenco dancer whose violent murder in 1999 shocked and rallied Southern California’s Spanish dance community.

Juan Talavera, a leading flamenco instructor who was mentoring the slain dancer, says many in L.A.’s flamenco world swear by Duran’s shoes. Although some still prefer to order directly from Spain, Talavera says he likes Duran because he’s affordable and accessible. The personal service beats dealing with anonymous shoemakers in Sevilla and getting stuck with an ill-fitting shipment.

“Duran’s the only one here in Los Angeles,” says the Whittier-based teacher, who leads two local flamenco groups. “Among [Mexican] folklorico dancers, he’s held in very high esteem.”

Anahi Armenta has been a customer since she started dancing folklorico as a teenager at nearby Roosevelt High School. Now married and the mother of a young son, Armenta came all the way from Corona one recent afternoon to have a pair of shoes repaired by Duran.

Not her white dancing shoes, which Duran made 11 years ago. Those are still holding up just fine.

“They fit to perfection,” says Armenta, who’s studying to be a teacher and still performs with a folklorico group in Riverside. “So I don’t need to buy another pair.”

Satisfied customers make Duran a contented cobbler. But just as he takes credit for their good performances, he also feels the shame of missed steps.

Once, he got dressed up to attend a folklorico concert in Santa Monica where 30 young dancers were performing in his new shoes. The proud craftsman took a conspicuous seat, quite pleased with himself--until a heel was kicked loose and went flying across the stage. Unable to bear the embarrassment, Duran got up and left the auditorium, ripping off his tie in anger. Later, back at the shop, he scolded his workers and ordered them to use longer nails.

The first rule of shoe making: They must be made to last.

Craft Learned From His Father

Duran learned his craft as a boy from his father, Francisco, a shoemaker in the rustic Durango town of Rosario, a few hours from Parral, Chihuahua, where he was born. Those shoes had to be masisos, strong enough to withstand hard hillside climbs along dusty roads.

His father is now 103 and lives in Juarez, where the younger Duran made cowboy boots before moving to California in 1954. “He’s doing better than me,” he says of his father. “I’ve got to get around with this piece of junk.”

Duran’s mother died almost 20 years ago. It was at her funeral that he vowed to quit his drinking and his ornery ways, he says. He controlled his compulsive eating and lost 131 pounds off his old burly self, which once weighed 316.

He believes his quest for self-improvement made him a better husband and father, not to mention a better businessman.

Before, he admits, he was sometimes rude to his customers and careless about their orders. Now, he aims to please.

“You have to learn to love yourself and respect others,” he says. “In this job, I sometimes like--how do you say?-- a challenge. Un reto. You understand? I want to make my customers happy. I want to make shoes exactly the way they want them.”