Shoemaker Rafael Allyev, owner of Chelsea’s Ruslan shoe shop, shows a customer sample photos of his work recently.

Ruslan crafts shoes the old-fashioned way

By Tabitha Earp

At the back of a tiny Chelsea store named Ruslan a few weeks ago, a balding, barrel-chested man in jeans and a sleeveless black T-shirt carefully swayed side-to-side in front of 50-year-old Russian machinery, his rough hands holding an alligator-skinned boot as he delicately finished the edges and securely attached the soles and heels. Around him was a visual cacophony items, including an array of fur hats, boots with protruding snake heads, and purses covered in zebra fur. Just beyond the heavy glass door that forms the entrance to his enclave lay bookshelves and glass cases overstocked with more shoes, hats and purses.

The handiwork belongs to Rafael Allyev, a 40-year-old master shoemaker who has amassed quite a following in his adopted Chelsea neighborhood since 1994, when he first made his way into the American shoe business after emigrating from Dushanbe, Tadzhikistan, three years earlier. In the process of building a name for himself with Ruslan (located at 200 West 30th St.), he has managed to preserve an enviable commitment to Old World shoe techniques he learned in Russia, while deftly employing a bit of American ingenuity to become a go-to guy in fashion-forward Chelsea.

“Rafael does exceptional work and is a very personable, entertaining and funny guy,” said Frank Tenteromano, who works in the area and was standing a few feet outside of Allyev’s storefront recently, glancing inside to catch a look at the shoemaker as he plied his trade.

That was in evidence back in early July, when Chelsea Now visited with Allyev at his shop—as was his commitment to his craft. He has been developing his talents as a custom shoemaker since the age of 7, first by watching his father—who was a prominent shoemaker in Tadzhikistan, a former republic of the Soviet Union, which broke away in 1991 after the collapse of the Soviet Union—then by starting his first shoe store at the tender age of 16, a feat that landed him in his local paper.

Angela, Allyev’s wife, said that while in the Soviet Union, her husband always yearned to come overseas. “He was always dreaming about the United States, to come here and to make custom shoes and be proud of himself, because he loves what he’s doing.”


King of custom-made

Allyev designs custom shoes using a variety of animal furs and skins, ranging from zebra and ponies to alligators and snakes. He carefully makes them using four 50-year-old machines he brought over from the Soviet Union, along with two Russian books of shoemaking techniques.

Allyev received the mid-century technique books from a teacher at a technical school he attended in Russia for shoemaking. As he flipped through each one recently, pointing to the various diagrams and paragraphs written in Russian and explaining what each one means, the brown covers of each manual seemed about to fall apart.

Each instructional book gives detailed information about the handmade way of shoemaking Allyev learned from his father, explaining, among other things, the appropriate way to prepare the shoe pattern and how many milligrams of glue to use for the skin.

While Allyev mainly uses his Russian technique manuals when shoemaking, he does have a hardcover English manual as well, which sits on the counter with all its pages intact and its forest-green cover spotless. Flipping between the Russian and American books helps him translate whatever shoemaking practice he is trying to explain.

“This book is all fancy explanation for new generation,” he said holding up the American book.

While most shoemakers in New York watch their designs zoom by on modern machines, barely having time to press the pause button to make any sudden changes, Allyev slowly and carefully makes his custom shoes using his own hands and his old, slower machines.

“New-generation system I don’t use too much, because the old stuff is better,” he said in his thick Russian accent.

When making a pair of custom shoes, Allyev first chooses an appropriate-sized mold to work with. The molds, which come in an array of colors and sizes, are displayed on Allyev’s floor in a pile, every one foot-shaped and heavy, causing a thud as Allyev places them on a wooden work table. After choosing a mold, Allyev covers it with small strips of masking tape. Next, he sketches the design of the shoe onto the masking tape using a pencil and carefully pulls the tape off of the mold and places it on unlined drawing paper. Using a small silver tool that allows him to press indentions into the drawing paper from the design he created with the masking tape, he finally creates the pattern.

He then uses the pattern to cut the chosen skin material and thins the edges of the cut skin, allowing it to be placed over the mold once again. By placing the skin over the mold again, he is able to double-check the size and make any extra cuts he missed. Allyev leaves the skin on the mold for three or four days to allow it to begin to take the shoe shape. Once the skin is molded to the correct shape, Allyev applies the glue and uses his old machinery to create the heel and attach it to the sole. Finally, he inserts the insole, and the shoe is ready for the customer to try on.

“Shoes come out better with custom-made because you put proper opening, proper inside glue. Physically you pull the skin. You check all the details in the shoes,” said Allyev.

The slow process of creating custom shoes, however, allows Allyev time to fill a maximum of only four orders a month. A pair of yellow alligator-skin ankle-cut boots sitting on a shelf in his shop were priced at more than $200; models run upwards of $400, depending on the amount and type of material used. A selection of retail shoes that takes up the entire left wall of the shop help supplement Allyev’s income. “Otherwise you can’t survive,” he said, looking downward at the retail shoes overflowing from the shelves onto the floor.

Allyev looked toward the glass entrance door in front of him, further elaborating on his commitment to custom shoes despite the extra time and manual labor. He explained that a customer who had entered the store earlier that day had tried on four pairs of retail shoes in search of the one that had the least number of imperfections. “If I do custom-made, one shoe [works],” Allyev said.

Jack Wasserman understands the shoemaker’s point implicitly. Wasserman, who has been Allyev’s landlord for 10 years, has had custom shoes made for him and his son. He said Allyev makes him shoes to match his outfits, one of which was a “fabulous” blue-and-white pair. “This man has tremendous talent,” Wasserman said while standing outside the shop recently. “He’s a hidden gem.”


Shoemaker wears many hats

When Allyev is not creating his own designs, filling custom orders or waiting on retail customers, he helps up-and-coming shoe designers and students bring their ideas to life. Burgeoning designers who want to create samples of their sketches but who lack experience in shoemaking sometimes come to Allyev, who creates a prototype for them to present to shoe manufacturers.

“They don’t want to go to overseas,” he said, explaining why the local designers choose him specifically for this type of work. “I’m here.”

Recently, Allyev has been considering spending some time over at the Fashion Institute of Technology, located only nine blocks from his shop. He was approached by faculty at the school last year, who asked him if he would be interested in coming in to talk to a technician class about his methods.

“Not many places you can see this kind of stuff,” he said explaining why faculty members chose to ask him. He said he will most likely wait until he has retired from his shop to move forward with teaching. For now, he is content to play professor when the students visit his shop.

Allyev also performs one other feat that has gotten him notice, not to mention plenty of business: He duplicates beloved vintage shoes that are beyond repair. Allyev held up a pair of 25-year-old black high-heeled shoes sent in from Connecticut; the heels were cracked and deteriorated. Instead of throwing away the shoes or having the heels replaced, the Connecticut woman sent them into Allyev, who will make an exact replica of the heels, a process that can cost anywhere from $200 to $500, depending upon the type of shoe and the material.

While many customers find Allyev through his Website (www.custommadeshoes.com), other requests come from closer to home. Larry Chakey, a financial advisor at Chase Insurance Agency, said he was able to get a favorite pair of worn-out dress shoes duplicated when he merely took a walk a few blocks down from his business.

“I pass every day, and I was admiring some of the boots that were on display, both in the window and out on the display on the sidewalk, so I decided to stop in,” Chakey said. “I was not treated like just a customer walking in. It was almost family.”

Hardly one to keep his ambition in check, Allyev has one other trick up his sleeve. Not long after starting Ruslan, he decided he wanted to learn more about the medical side of the foot business and help people on an entirely different level. To that end, Allyev began taking a pedorthic pre-certification course with Eneslow Pedorthic Institute, a private company in Manhattan created in 1995 that offers pedorthic education for the public.

In 2001, after completing the 120-hour class and paying nearly $3,000 in books and tuition, he was finally permitted to take the final exam.

“[However,] I failed because my English [was] not [good] enough to get medical certification,” he said, pointing upward to his framed course picture propped up on one of the higher shelves. He said he plans to retake the exam in September after spending more time improving his language skills.

If Allyev does eventually pass the test and is able to gain his official pedorthic certification, he will be able to take prescriptions from doctors and create custom shoes for people with medical conditions, combining his custom shoe craft with modern medicine to help people in ways that not even his shoemaking father could have imagined.

“I like to pass my pedorthic test,” said Allyev with a smile. “That is my dream.”