French lace capital down to 300 workers
Industry once boasted more than 30,000 employees
CALAIS, FRANCE — The clang of giant weaving looms ricocheted across a cavernous factory one recent afternoon at Desseilles Laces, one of the oldest lace makers in France. A handful of workers flitted among the machines, guiding gossamer threads into a floral confection destined for luxury lingerie and couture dresses.
The halls here, and at hundreds of lace factories around Calais, were once thick with employees. But as competition from countries with cheaper labour costs buffeted France, waves of layoffs swept through this working-class town on the edge of the English Channel.
Today, fewer than 300 employees remain at just three factories — Desseilles, Noyon Dentelle and Codentel — a fraction of the 30,000 whose livelihood depended on lace less than two generations ago. Around Calais, the hulking brick skeletons of abandoned lace factories cast shadows over modest, low-slung houses. And Desseilles was recently taken over by a Chinese investor, drawing laments that a crown jewel of the industry had fallen into foreign hands.
It has been a painful retreat for an industry whose delicate creations symbolized “Made in France” know-how, an economic pattern repeated across the country and one of the most divisive issues in the French presidential election.
From steel mills to auto factories, the loss of hundreds of thousands of jobs to globalization has created social distress — and competing visions from the candidates about how to fix it. France’s rigid labour laws, despite recent reforms, add a layer of complexity by making it difficult for companies to adjust to a shifting economy.
In ravaged industrial areas like Calais, anger about the impact of globalization is fierce, as unemployment tops 20 per cent and the remaining factory floors rely more heavily on machinery than manpower.
French lace has long been a symbol of refinement. After the Napoleonic Wars ended in 1815, the French aristocracy drove demand for the luxurious adornments that were just starting to be produced in Calais. Today, superfine lace continues to embellish outfits of the elegant, whether as a cascade of sheer flowers on the Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding dress or layered in couture gowns on catwalks around the world.
Lace making began to flourish here in the early 19th century, after three British weavers smuggled giant looms, called Leavers machines, across the English Channel to evade English restrictions on selling lace to the French.
They set up in the textile-making town of Calais. The new industry blossomed, and the metallic click of the Leavers looms vibrated in Calais’ narrow streets day and night. Some streets are named after leaders of an industry that ushered in jobs, prosperity and a cosmopolitan makeover that would sustain the town’s families for generations.
The dream began to unravel around the 1960s. Factories still relied heavily on the antique Leavers looms, which were slow and required many employees. When more efficient lace-knitting machines were added, workers lost jobs.
Shifting fashion trends also affected demand, as women started wearing pants, plainer shirts and fewer dresses and undergarments trimmed with lace. More casual lifestyles took their toll on lace tablecloths and handkerchiefs.
In the ensuing decades, more jobs were lost as factories opened in Asia, cranking out lower-quality but passably pretty lace. Many of Desseilles’ clients shifted their buying away from Europe.
Labour costs were significantly lower in Asia than in France, where employers also pay high taxes on salaries to fund the generous social welfare system.
Then in 2005, the European Union abolished textile import quotas, allowing cheap garments — and knock-off lace — from Asia to flood the European market. It was the final blow.
Soon, only a few thousand of the 30,000 lace-related jobs that had existed 30 years earlier were left. The sound of Leavers machines gave way to silence as layoffs accelerated and factories were abandoned.
At Noyon, executives tried to play the globalization game. In 2003, they opened a factory in Sri Lanka. Like Desseilles, Noyon was still making expensive Leavers lace for high-end lingerie clients and hoped the production in Sri Lanka would improve margins.
It didn’t stop the bleeding. With around 800 workers in Calais, representing 60 per cent of Noyon’s costs, revenue kept eroding.
Noyon laid off hundreds of employees, many of whom had spent their lives in the factories. As losses mounted, Noyon filed for bankruptcy in September and was on the verge of closing until a group of French lingerie makers swooped in to invest, wanting to protect their high-quality supply. Today, with just 170 employees, it is the largest lace factory in town.
Desseilles faced a similar fate, exacerbated by French labour laws. In 2011, facing what Michel Berrier, an owner, called “catastrophic losses,” Desseilles went into receivership to shed nine of its remaining 74 workers in a bid to survive.
But five employees, among them protected union leaders, sued to be reinstated. In 2015, a court ordered Desseilles to rehire them with back pay and damages, a cost of nearly one million euros. With debts of 600,000 euros, it was money Desseilles did not have.
The company was forced into bankruptcy. “Globalization isn’t the only reason we ran into trouble,” said Berrier, surveying his near-empty factory floor. “The French labour laws put the last nail in the coffin.”
It was a Chinese investor, Hangzhou Yongsheng Group, that rescued the company, acquiring it in 2016.
Since then, Yongsheng, which runs textile and investing companies in Asia, has increased productivity, installing a bright new LED system that allows employees to easily identify flaws, and grouping Leavers machines closer together so that one employee can work several looms at once.
“‘Made in France’ matters — the expertise is here,” said Cloris Li, Yongsheng’s manager in France, who wants to start an Asian luxury label using French-made lace. “I hope I can bring a brighter future to Desseilles.”
The last of the lace makers are relieved to have jobs, but many are nostalgic for the days when French lace was king. Most have family ties to the factories that go back for generations.
“I learned how to string a bobbin when I was 11,” said Sonia Rengot, 47, a lace maker at Noyon for more than 30 years. “Everyone in Calais had someone in the business.”
Today, when she walks around town, she can tell just by looking in a shop window whether the lace on a dress was made in Asia or in Calais.
Even as they hope the factories will stay afloat, the lace makers seem aware that the damage to France’s lace industry — and to other manufacturers around the country — is permanent. On the streets of Calais, no one really expects the factories to return.