Every story has a beginning.
The Kali Shoes story begins in 2020, in the middle of the pandemic. The world had come to a standstill, yes. But sometimes, when everything outside stops, something starts to move inside.
That's how it was for Dante, the mind behind Kali Shoes, who today tells us how it all unfolded: where the spark came from, which mistakes shaped him, and how he got this far.
Together, in a conversation, we rewind the tape and go back to where it all started.
Dante, let's start from the beginning. Kali Shoes was born in a very particular moment in history. How did it all begin?
Let's just say that, in many ways, the beginning of Kali Shoes was almost a gamble.
I didn't come from the footwear world.
I worked as a project manager in a digital agency, and among the clients I looked after there was one selling shoes online. The product worked, the sales were there. But something fundamental was missing: the human connection. The care. Real attention towards the person on the other side of the screen.
It was a system that kept turning, but with no soul.
And from there came a very simple question, which changed everything: what if we tried to do it better?
So, together with a tiny group of people who shared my vision from day one, I started a small business to sell shoes on our own. It was 2020.
In its earliest days, Kali was a small reality, made of trial and error, of study, of plenty of hands-on work. But the founding principle it was built on, genuine care for the customer, has been its defining trait from day one.
In the beginning, though, Kali Shoes wasn't producing handmade western boots. What changed along the way?
Yes, that's true, we haven't always been what we are today. But it's precisely our origins that allowed us to evolve, both as people and as a brand.
When we started this adventure, western boots weren't even on our radar, and the world of craftsmanship was still unknown to us.
In a way, we'd chosen the easier path: we sold on-trend shoes, bought abroad in small stock batches of six to eight pairs per style.
We didn't produce them ourselves, we didn't follow the styles from raw material to finished product. We packaged the shoes with our label and sold them. With great results.
Business was good, we were selling a lot. Little sacrifice, high margins.
But we weren't proud of how things were going. We could feel the cracks running deep in the system.
The shoes we sold, the ones filling up our warehouse, would fall apart after a month.
We looked around and saw so much waste, so much plastic.
No, we weren't proud of it.
That first venture only lasted a few months, and today I firmly believe that was its greatest stroke of luck.
Because, just as we were trying to figure out how to get out of a system we'd built but that didn't really reflect who we were, something forced us to stop and rethink everything from scratch.
And shortly after, Covid arrived. That's when things really changed, didn't they?
Exactly. All of a sudden cities ground to a halt, and we all started living on the edge, quite literally not knowing what tomorrow would bring.
The queues with face masks outside supermarkets, friends getting ill: in a situation like that, you realise how uncertain everything is. And what really matters.
Producing waste, recycling packaging, selling items that within a month would end up in a bin, destined to pile up in landfill: no, we didn't want to make money off all that anymore.
It wasn't a strategic decision. There was no business plan saying "in six months we'll move into Italian craftsmanship".
Once again, we moved on instinct. And the inspiration for the new beginning came, unexpectedly, from a small personal problem.
You're talking about the blue boots?
Exactly those!
I had to find a gift for someone very dear to me, and I had a clear idea of what I wanted: a pair of blue boots.
Simple, right? Well, no, it really wasn't: finding a pair of properly made blue boots, in the middle of a pandemic, in Italy, was turning into a literal treasure hunt.
The ones I did find broke after two weeks. And that's when I realised I needed to pay attention to a loud, clear signal: what I want doesn't exist? Right, I'll make it myself.
Easier said than done…
I started calling potential manufacturers, one after the other. And collecting rejections.
Some only cared about numbers and volumes (which I couldn't guarantee), some were closing down because of lockdown, others simply said "nice idea, but no thanks".
It was hard to find someone willing to help build something new, starting from the ground up. Something small, but well-crafted, real.
The first manufacturer that agreed to work with Kali went bankrupt within a few months: that was the toughest moment, I really was on the verge of giving up.
My small team and I were left on our own, with 700 orders waiting to be delivered.
We had no idea where to start. I remember spending whole days behind the wheel. We'd go to the cutters, pick up the cut leather, take it to the stitchers, then to whoever assembled the boots. We'd go back to collect them, pack them and ship them out. All of it, us, 700 times over.
Picture that moment: you're exhausted, hands sticky with glue, the van packed with boxes, your phone ringing with customers asking about their order. It's only natural to think: "what on earth have I got myself into".
But that situation also taught me something important. I didn't need someone to make boots for us: I needed someone who would embrace our vision, and build it with us".
I couldn't give up without one last try.
And here we get to the meeting with craftsmanship
Yes, we visited several workshops across central Italy, we spoke with both elderly and young artisans, we got to know the passion of those who keep alive traditions and skills passed down from father to son, from master to apprentice.
In the end, the person we'd been searching for was right around the corner, in Campania, my home region.
Mario, an artisan with deep expertise in leatherwork, who had never made western boots before. But he had two essential qualities: a profound knowledge of his craft and the enthusiasm to experiment.
We started at a pace of two, three pairs a day: everything handmade by him, every step followed closely.
Meanwhile, my small team and I (Marzia and Nicol, who've been there since the beginning) built the digital system that exists today, reached out to designers to create the first in-house styles, put together a chain of small Italian suppliers for every single component.
And, this is important, we chose to follow a made-to-order production model: no warehouses, no waste from unsold stock.
Two pairs a day. Today, we deliver roughly twenty thousand pairs across the world.
And why, out of all the shoes that could be made in Italy, western boots in particular?
Because in this kind of boot we found something that spoke to us: western boots are the symbol of a free spirit. A little bold, a little rock, a little rebellious. They're not the kind of boots you wear to go unnoticed: they say something about you.
On top of that, western boots in Italy were a niche market with plenty of room to step in and build something unique. There were only a few structured brands, a lot was imported from abroad, and there was very little genuine local craftsmanship.
We saw the opportunity to launch a project that felt like us and filled a real gap in the market.
At this point, the other question that comes naturally is: why the name "Kali"?
The name came early, and it wasn't by chance. And yes, it does come straight from the name of the Hindu goddess.
Kali is a goddess who brings opposites together. She embodies at the same time a disruptive power and a maternal tenderness: two things that usually don't go together, and yet for us they captured exactly what we wanted to be.
The disruptive power is the one set against a superficial fashion, one that wants us all looking the same, victims of the temptations of a low-quality fast fashion that harms the planet. But it's also the power set against all those social conditionings that, still today, hold back women's freedom of expression and self-determination.
And then there's tenderness, which for us is just another word for care. Care for the details, for thoughtful and responsible production. Care for the unique story every woman carries with her – and tells, too, with every step she takes.
That's why "Kali". Because a pair of boots, in the end, is never just a pair of boots.
If you had to say in a few words what Kali Shoes is today, what would you say?
I'd say Kali Shoes today is a clear direction. A direction that can be summed up in three steps:
Less plastic, more real material.
Less needless production, more awareness.
Less noise, more identity.
Kali Shoes is a journey in progress, born in a difficult moment and grown through research, mistakes, and the desire to do things differently.
The team has grown, made up of many people, some in the workshop, others collaborating remotely.
We're not perfect. But every day we work to create a space that's more human, more responsible, more truly ours.
And that's why today we make handmade western boots, made to order in Italy, with materials chosen one by one.
Because we believe a pair of boots should last. Should have a story. And should be able to tell the story of the women who choose us, step after step.
Thank you, Dante.
The Kali Shoes story keeps writing itself every day, inside the workshop and beyond.
Every pair of boots is a small chapter: it's born from the wishes of our customers, takes shape in our minds, and becomes real thanks to hands that carry the tradition of Italian craftsmanship forward in ever new ways.
The true (Hand)Made in Italy, for us, is the one that doesn't need to raise its voice to be recognised. You see it, you touch it, you wear it.
And thank you, for reading this far.
Thank you to everyone who chooses us, for a special occasion or just an ordinary day, because in our boots they find a new way to express their character.
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Dante, Marzia, Nicol and the whole team