In 2008, archaeologists working in the Areni-1 cave in Armenia’s Vayots Dzor region, discovered a leather shoe around 5,500 years old. Dated to approximately 3627–3377 BC, it is considered the oldest known surviving leather shoe in the world.
What makes it remarkable is not only its age, but how familiar it still looks. Made from a single piece of leather, it was shaped around the foot and secured with a leather cord. Measuring around 24.5 centimetres, roughly a modern European size 37, and its wear patterns suggest it was moulded to a right foot over time.
The shoe survived thanks to the dry, cool conditions of the cave, which preserved both the leather and traces of its use. It still carries the imprint of the person who wore it, making it feel less like an abstract archaeological object and more like something once part of everyday life.
In the mountainous landscape of Vayots Dzor, footwear like this would have been practical and necessary. Grass was also found tucked inside, possibly used to help the shoe keep its shape or to provide insulation. But what's even more striking is how legible the construction remains today: the leather forms the shoe itself, while the lacing adjusts the fit. Almost every visible element serves a practical purpose, which is one of the reasons the object still feels relevant from a design perspective.
A similar logic appears much later in traditional Armenian footwear, particularly in the trekh, or տրեխ, a handmade leather shoe historically worn by both men and women. Trekh were typically made from rough hide or treated leather and secured with leather or woollen cords. Different versions existed across regions, with variations in seams, edging, toe shape and fastening, reflecting the wider diversity of Armenian dress. Patterned woollen socks were an important part of traditional clothing too, while more elaborate leather, velvet and embroidered shoes appeared among wealthier and urban communities.
It's this relationship between function and cultural memory that first drew me to Armenian footwear, and led me to use my family's heritage as the foundation for my own label, Koshik. For me, the value of looking back at these objects is not nostalgia, but the possibility of keeping their ideas in circulation.
Much of Armenian material culture now lives in museums, archives and family memory, while many objects and techniques that once belonged to everyday life are no longer widely used. Contemporary design offers a way to engage with that heritage again: not by reproducing it exactly, but by understanding it deeply enough to carry some of its logic forward.
There is a rich visual and craft archive to draw on, from traditional footwear and textiles to carpets, colour, regional dress, construction methods and material techniques. What matters to me is that the connection remains meaningful, that we're not simply borrowing from the past, but finding ways for its ideas, techniques and stories to keep evolving. And with interest in Yerevan Fashion Week only growing, it's clear I'm far from the only one drawn to it. Armenian fashion, and footwear, is getting global attention once again.
My own label takes its name from the Armenian word for “shoe”, and our first design, the Areni Flat, references that archaeological discovery in both name and construction. The intention was never to recreate the ancient shoe literally, but to understand which of its elements could be translated into a contemporary object. In that sense, the Areni Flat isn’t the conclusion of the research, but the beginning of it. I’ll keep looking into Armenian history, craft and visual culture, finding less obvious references and translating them into contemporary footwear and accessories, so that the connection always remains something living.