The Perfect PairA study of the humble sock.

On the Piazza di Santa Chiara in Rome, there is a small, unassuming shop that has been in business since 1798. Over the centuries, Gammarelli has become the prime destination for the Italian clergy, who come to buy their chasubles, surplices, albs and cinctures. It’s also where the pope has traditionally sourced his socks.¹ In recent years, Gammarelli has taken on something of a cult status—selling not only to the ecclesiastical world (black for priests, purple for bishops, red for cardinals, a special white knee-high for the pope) but also to a wider public that has cottoned on to the pleasures of slipping on their luxurious socks. 

A sock is a curious garment. Often, it’s an afterthought—the domain of multipacks and three-for-two offers, bought in uniform neutrals—that protects the foot without requiring much decision-making. Occupying a small amount of sartorial real estate, it is less attention-grabbing than a shoe but more necessary year-round than the other so-called “soft” accessories like gloves and scarves. If the accompanying trousers or robe is long enough, it will only really be glimpsed when sitting down. Sometimes, if, like the pope, you’re indulging in a more deluxe and floor-length look, its primary benefit may be private—only for the silk-toed wearer. A shoe is for you, but a sock is for me, if you will. 

Yet if foregrounded, the sock’s limited presence can also be its visual strength. With bold colors, lavish fabrics or delicate patterns, a flash of ankle can upend an outfit or rebalance it, shifting the point of focus. Think David Hockney’s mismatched color-clash stockings, or Princess Diana’s chunky white sports socks worn with equally chunky sneakers. The challenge is to tread the delicate ground between novel and novelty, enhancing an outfit without lapsing into absurdity.