Denim Delirium

In Japan, jeans will talk. They will wax eloquent on the poetry of hand-dyed, hand-stitched denim. They will lecture on the pros and cons of cotton or acrylic threads, sculpted or plain rivets. They will speak of the designer who had probably sacrificed rest, sleep, and sanity to create this one perfect pair with the tapered leg and the low rise cut that fits just so. Most importantly, they will pipe up and articulate about the wearer, his or her particular sense of aesthetics and economics, their standards of romance. For the style-obsessed Japanese, a favorite pair of jeans is ultimately the most important item in their closet and the act of shopping for them has reached unprecedented, almost religious heights.

These days the Japanese denim lover will buy domestic. While the craze for True Religion and Earnest Sewn continues, the real thrill now is about discovering obscure, tucked-away brands created by monkish denim artisans. Take for example the legendary Kato Jeans helmed by Kato Hiroshi, who draws all his designs by hand on a sketchbook before taking them down to a tiny downtown factory where he sits down with the supervisor to give minute instructions on exactly what he's aiming for. Kato Jeans is based in Kyoto and only a select handful of shops in the nation carry the wares, mainly because Kato Hiroshi chooses not to enlarge or complicate his operation. A former textile consultant, Kato takes no short cuts. Everything about a pair of Kato jeans is thought out, hand-crafted, and marvelously detailed (even the thread on the pockets are dyed to his specifications), with attention paid to things like the cut that makes Japanese legs look longer, and the cotton specially blended to counter the wilting heat of Japanese summers. Retailed for between 19,800 to 23,000 yen (up to about 200 dollars), Kato jeans are pricey but "worth it," according to avid fan Yamada Jun. "I had always hated the sight of myself in jeans," he says, "but in a pair of Kato, I've learned to actually like my body. This is more than a clothing item, it's like experiencing a digital effects treatment on one's own legs."

Also from Kyoto is a brand called Mizra, which combines impeccable craftsmanship, eco-friendliness, and retro-Japanese motifs—all in a single pair. Designer Iwagishi Yoshiyuki is a true artisan who loves the process of creation of more than anything else, and "torturing and killing" himself over a certain silhouette or a particular fit is second nature to him. Mizra is distinguished by the slim, elegant line of the legs and the antique kimono fragments used on the pockets and hems. For dye, Iwagishi uses traditional Japanese materials like soybeans and wood charcoal, costly to use but reported to have remedial effects on the body. No two pairs of Mizra jeans are exactly the same, since each is finished by hand.

After Kyoto, hardcore denim fetishists may head further west to Okayama prefecture, the official pilgrimage site for artisanal jeans lovers. Long known for its dye and indigo industry, Okayama is home to over 100 family-owned denim factories that serve the nation's jeans designers plus vaulted Euro brands like Dior Homme and D&G. Most Japanese jeans designers swear by Okayama indigo: a deep, clean, ocean-blue unmatched anywhere else in the world. Most of the work in these factories is still done by hand, following methods that go back centuries. A brand called Kapital started out in Okayama in 1995 and is now recognized among fashion critics as having the truest, deepest shade of blue, with understated designs that speak of a reverence for denim. Kapital's company logo consists of two indigo-stained hands and the words: Guaranteed Blue Hands. Its emphasis on honest labor, functionality, and sincere craftsman ship recall that in the United States, jeans were once the exclusive garb of the worker, free from fashion frivolity.

For a jeans shop called "Garage," it's not even about selling/buying anymore. Garage is owned and run by a young couple and their seven-year-old daughter; the shop, their manufacturing plant, and living quarters is in one and the same house, open to the public for just several days a month. Their jeans are called "Cracker" and displayed lovingly on the first floor. People are free to come in and try them on, while the couple work upstairs. But the actual buying doesn't become an option until the wearer and the designer both look long and hard at the mirror and decide whether the particular pair really, truly looks good and fits like a charm. Should anything be amiss, the wearer is politely discouraged from paying: sorry, no deal. One customer described the experience: "It's like unrequited love. I'm heartbroken."