How 'bout i copy and paste
On Japanese streets, denim artisans are walking the walk
By Kaori Shoji International Herald Tribune
Published: October 2, 2006
TOKYO In Japan, jeans can talk. They wax eloquent on the poetry of hand- dyed, hand-stitched denim. They lecture on the pros and cons of cotton or acrylic threads, sculpted or plain rivets.
They speak of the designer who probably sacrificed sleep and sanity to create one perfect pair with a tapered leg and a low-rise cut that fits just so. Most important, they pipe up about the wearer, his or her particular sense of aesthetics and economics, their standards of romance.
For style-obsessed Japanese who have the cash, a favorite pair of jeans is ultimately the most important item in a closet, surpassing the Fendi suit or the cashmere sweater from Prada. Brands may come and go but jeans are forever, and they are very, very personal. They will adorn you but they won't disguise you, and they will surely reveal secrets of your innermost soul.
Such are some of the myths that have moved the quest for the perfect pair of jeans to religious heights. To call this search "shopping" would be a grave inaccuracy. The better phrase for these people is more like "mission from god."
So the Japanese denim lover is delving deeper into the fringes of the jeans world. The craze continues for True Religion and Earnest Sewn, for instance, but the real thrill now comes in discovering obscure brands created by monkish denim artisans.
Take the legendary Kato Jeans designed by Hiroshi Kato, who draws all his ideas in a sketchbook and takes them to a tiny downtown factory. He then sits down with the supervisor to give minute instructions on exactly what he is aiming for.
Kato Jeans is based in Kyoto and only a handful of shops carry its pants because Kato has chosen not to enlarge or complicate his operation. A former textile consultant, he takes no short cuts. A pair of Kato Jeans is hand-crafted and marvelously detailed - even the thread on the pockets is dyed to his specifications. He strives for a cut that makes Japanese legs look longer and blends the cotton to accommodate the wilting heat of Japanese summers.
Retailing at 19,800 to 23,000 yen, or about $170 to $195, Kato Jeans are pricey but worth it, says one fan, Jun Yamada. "I had always hated the sight of myself in jeans," he said, "My legs were too short and stumpy."
Kato solved Yamada's problem. "I would look in the mirror and recoil in horror," he said, "But in a pair of Kato I've learned to actually like my body. This is more than a clothing item."
Mizra, also manufactured in Kyoto, combines craftsmanship, eco-friendliness and retro-Japanese motifs. The brand's designer, Yoshiyuki Iwagishi, says that the process of creation is more important than anything else and that "torturing and killing" himself over a silhouette or a particular fit is second nature.
Mizra jeans are distinguished by a slim, elegant leg line; the antique kimono fragments used on the pockets and hems; and Iwagishi's use of traditional Japanese dyes, made from soy beans and wood charcoal, for example. No two Mizra jeans are the same because every pair is finished by hand.
After Kyoto, hard-core denim fans head west to Okayama Prefecture, the official pilgrimage site for artisanal jeans lovers.
Long known for its dye and indigo industry, Okayama is home to more than 100 family-owned factories that serve Japan's designers and such European brands like Dior Homme and Dolce and Gabbana.
Most Japanese jeans designers swear by Okayama indigo: a deep, ocean-blue shade. Most of the work in these factories is still done by hand and follow methods that are centuries-old.
Kapital started out in Okayama in 1995 and is now said to have the truest, deepest shade of blue, with understated designs that fashion critics say show a reverence for denim.
For the Japanese, denim carries a romantic subtext. No one had seen a pair of jeans until American soldiers brought them in at the end of World War II in 1945. They became a metaphor for rebelliousness, freedom, and liberation from the darkness and hunger of war.
In the 1950s, the diplomat and statesman Jiro Shirasu posed for a photo portrait in a pair of Levis and a white T- shirt. The Foreign Ministry was shocked but the fad set in. By the late 1960s Japanese jeans manufacturers like Edwin Co. were churning out jeans of every shape and color and now many young Japanese think that Edwin is an American brand like Levis.
These days, Japanese denim faithful will own one pair of a mainstream jeans company, one pair of a foreign brand and one pair stitched to perfection by a relatively unknown artisan/designer.
At a shop called Garage, meanwhile, things have evolved beyond the simple act of selling and buying. Garage is owned by a young couple who open the shop - which combines the store, the manufacturing room and the living quarters - only for several days a month. They did not want their names to be used, saying they prefer to remain inconspicuous and have the focus be the product.
Their jeans, called "Cracker," are displayed on the ground floor. People can come in and try them on but no one buys a thing until the wearer and the designer look long and hard at the mirror to decide whether a particular pair fits like a charm.
If anything is amiss, in the designer's eyes, the potential buyer is politely discouraged: Sorry, no deal. One customer described the experience: "It's like unrequited love. I'm heartbroken."
TOKYO In Japan, jeans can talk. They wax eloquent on the poetry of hand- dyed, hand-stitched denim. They lecture on the pros and cons of cotton or acrylic threads, sculpted or plain rivets.
They speak of the designer who probably sacrificed sleep and sanity to create one perfect pair with a tapered leg and a low-rise cut that fits just so. Most important, they pipe up about the wearer, his or her particular sense of aesthetics and economics, their standards of romance.
For style-obsessed Japanese who have the cash, a favorite pair of jeans is ultimately the most important item in a closet, surpassing the Fendi suit or the cashmere sweater from Prada. Brands may come and go but jeans are forever, and they are very, very personal. They will adorn you but they won't disguise you, and they will surely reveal secrets of your innermost soul.
Such are some of the myths that have moved the quest for the perfect pair of jeans to religious heights. To call this search "shopping" would be a grave inaccuracy. The better phrase for these people is more like "mission from god."
So the Japanese denim lover is delving deeper into the fringes of the jeans world. The craze continues for True Religion and Earnest Sewn, for instance, but the real thrill now comes in discovering obscure brands created by monkish denim artisans.
Take the legendary Kato Jeans designed by Hiroshi Kato, who draws all his ideas in a sketchbook and takes them to a tiny downtown factory. He then sits down with the supervisor to give minute instructions on exactly what he is aiming for.
Kato Jeans is based in Kyoto and only a handful of shops carry its pants because Kato has chosen not to enlarge or complicate his operation. A former textile consultant, he takes no short cuts. A pair of Kato Jeans is hand-crafted and marvelously detailed - even the thread on the pockets is dyed to his specifications. He strives for a cut that makes Japanese legs look longer and blends the cotton to accommodate the wilting heat of Japanese summers.
Retailing at 19,800 to 23,000 yen, or about $170 to $195, Kato Jeans are pricey but worth it, says one fan, Jun Yamada. "I had always hated the sight of myself in jeans," he said, "My legs were too short and stumpy."
Kato solved Yamada's problem. "I would look in the mirror and recoil in horror," he said, "But in a pair of Kato I've learned to actually like my body. This is more than a clothing item."
Mizra, also manufactured in Kyoto, combines craftsmanship, eco-friendliness and retro-Japanese motifs. The brand's designer, Yoshiyuki Iwagishi, says that the process of creation is more important than anything else and that "torturing and killing" himself over a silhouette or a particular fit is second nature.
Mizra jeans are distinguished by a slim, elegant leg line; the antique kimono fragments used on the pockets and hems; and Iwagishi's use of traditional Japanese dyes, made from soy beans and wood charcoal, for example. No two Mizra jeans are the same because every pair is finished by hand.
After Kyoto, hard-core denim fans head west to Okayama Prefecture, the official pilgrimage site for artisanal jeans lovers.
Long known for its dye and indigo industry, Okayama is home to more than 100 family-owned factories that serve Japan's designers and such European brands like Dior Homme and Dolce and Gabbana.
Most Japanese jeans designers swear by Okayama indigo: a deep, ocean-blue shade. Most of the work in these factories is still done by hand and follow methods that are centuries-old.
Kapital started out in Okayama in 1995 and is now said to have the truest, deepest shade of blue, with understated designs that fashion critics say show a reverence for denim.
For the Japanese, denim carries a romantic subtext. No one had seen a pair of jeans until American soldiers brought them in at the end of World War II in 1945. They became a metaphor for rebelliousness, freedom, and liberation from the darkness and hunger of war.
In the 1950s, the diplomat and statesman Jiro Shirasu posed for a photo portrait in a pair of Levis and a white T- shirt. The Foreign Ministry was shocked but the fad set in. By the late 1960s Japanese jeans manufacturers like Edwin Co. were churning out jeans of every shape and color and now many young Japanese think that Edwin is an American brand like Levis.
These days, Japanese denim faithful will own one pair of a mainstream jeans company, one pair of a foreign brand and one pair stitched to perfection by a relatively unknown artisan/designer.
At a shop called Garage, meanwhile, things have evolved beyond the simple act of selling and buying. Garage is owned by a young couple who open the shop - which combines the store, the manufacturing room and the living quarters - only for several days a month. They did not want their names to be used, saying they prefer to remain inconspicuous and have the focus be the product.
Their jeans, called "Cracker," are displayed on the ground floor. People can come in and try them on but no one buys a thing until the wearer and the designer look long and hard at the mirror to decide whether a particular pair fits like a charm.
If anything is amiss, in the designer's eyes, the potential buyer is politely discouraged: Sorry, no deal. One customer described the experience: "It's like unrequited love. I'm heartbroken."
