THE LAST DENIM FACTORY
Tracking down the best-kept secret in town— who’s making S.F.’S artisanal jeans?
In the denim world, Gustin is a local legend. In 2013, the premium jeans brand raised $450,000 in a month by preselling American-made $200 selvage jeans for about $81 — setting a record for a fashion kickstarter campaign, according to Gustin founders Josh Gustin and Stephen Powell.
Their business builds on San Francisco’s 141-year history of denim craftsmanship in a modern way: with an efficient, direct-to-customer distribution model. The brand is also one of the few truly able to claim that they are made in San Francisco.
And for local “artisanal” denim companies, that’s a big deal.
“I’ll be visiting Kyoto, Osaka or Frankfurt,” says Tony Patella of San Francisco-made Tellason jeans, “and people will tell me it’s important that Tellason are made in America — but more important that it is made in San Francisco.”
Although that designation is clearly a point of pride among these niche denim brands, tracking down the last remaining denim factory in the land that launched Levi’s is as difficult as getting directions to the Mother Lode: Ask exactly where the jeans are made, and an awkward pause often follows.
“I probably shouldn’t say,” Gustin says. “It’s really hard to get into it.”
Like Gustin, Patella’s been producing Tellason in the same factory for five years. “When it comes to making heavy products, they are the best,” he says, but like Gustin, declines to name it. It’s no surprise that locally made brands are somewhat territorial. Who wants more potential competition from the increasing number of brands who want to make jeans here?
The quest for a manufacturer often leads denim startups to Los Angeles or overseas. Manuel Rappard founded RPMWest in San Francisco in 2013, but he eventually moved to Los Angeles to be closer to the production.
“It’s hard to get anything produced in San Francisco,” says RPMWest marketing manager Matt Schachtebeck.
In addition to a nostalgic wish to produce denim in the city where jeans were born, Schachtebeck says he has noticed a nostalgia for the iconic silhouette itself. “There’s a return to simplicity and high quality — a classic 501 style.”
He’s referring to the “waist overalls” created by Levi Strauss and Jacob Davis as work pants in 1873. In 1890, they were designated lot No. 501, becoming, arguably, America’s most influential contribution to fashion.
That design template informs most of the jeans being made today says Jonathan Cheung, Levi’s senior vice president of global design. “It’s like the ‘mother dough,’ like with sourdough, with all the design details that I’ve loved since I was an 18-year-old design student.” Today, fans can find the original silhouettes in the Levi’s Vintage Clothing collection.
I head to the company Clinton Park in the Bayview neighborhood. A “development company” with roots in denim making, I’d heard they’d launched a house brand. If they weren’t the factory, they’d certainly know about it.
Founder Steven Heard joined Levi’s as a patternmaker in 1991, working on the third floor of the Levi’s factory at 250 Valencia St., one floor up from where the 501s had been made since 1906.
Named after the alley behind that Valencia Street factory, Clinton Park is a small workshop based on the old Levi’s model of “designer, maker and seller.” Before 2002, the year the Levi’s factory closed, “this is what it was like,” Heard says. Like a mini factory, bolts of fabric are stacked among a cutting table and various vintage sewing machines that aid in the seven or more steps, and two-and-a-half hours, that go into making one pair of jeans.
Today, Heard helps other brands develop patterns and makes Dillon Montara, the line he created with Voyager store owner Robert Patterson.
Heard does confirm the existence of the San Francisco factory, which he calls “the only game in town.” It’s Seamaid Manufacturing Corp., the denim arm of Skyblue Sewing Manufacturing Inc.
I track down Seamaid, and put in a call.
Could I come by to see the factory? Sure, says production manager Todd Patterson.
Just like that, I have been invited inside San Francisco’s last remaining jeans factory. And it’s right across the street from The Chronicle building.
Skyblue Sewing Manufacturing, which houses Seamaid, is neighbors with Mint Plaza’s Blue Bottle Coffee and Gustin’s headquarters. One entrance is guarded by a gate and closed curtains; the other is accessed through an alley filled with construction, and a door that’s propped open. Any movement sets off the alarm, but it’s mainly to keep the neighborhood’s questionable characters at bay.
Patterson’s office is in the mezzanine of the two-story building. As production manager, he supervises 60 to 80 employees on 20 to 30 brands from Seattle, New York, San Francisco and beyond. He wears Converse, cargo shorts and a handlebar mustache, and has been with the company since 1996.
Seamaid specializes in providing a handcrafted look, Patterson says. Each pair requires eight or nine machines and 11 people; the only thing automatic is a belt loop machine.
The patterns are cut in the basement among $16-a-yard selvage denim, and the jeans are made on the first floor. Sample garments, heavy knitwear and other non-denim garments are made on the top floor. He says he developed an attention to detail after years of creating salesman samples for Levi’s. While all other San Francisco factories have shuttered, he believes that his factory’s ability to be “really good at doing what the customer wants” has led to a high demand. Patterson turns down two or three potential clients daily.
Getting in with Seamaid is challenging, but not impossible. Patterson will bring on a new company only if it’s doing something he hasn’t done, if it wants something he can do well, and if it’s either a bigger, more established company or if it’s a newer, smaller company that needs a chance — as long as they “have their ducks in a row.”
Howard Gee of North Beach’s AB Fits, whose house brand is made at Seamaid, has noticed more people wanting to launch a premium jeans brand — even if they have no experience in the industry. This means more competition for the types of custom, smaller-batch services that Patterson provides.
“Seamaid isn’t a school, if you know what I mean,” Gee says. “You have to be pretty far along to work with them.”
Despite the demand, Seamaid isn’t planning to expand. The problem, Patterson says, is the high cost of doing business in San Francisco, and finding experienced sewers. The primarily Chinese American employees are often “of a certain age group with not too many people behind them.” At times, he’s had a “Help Wanted” ad out for four months.
Patterson brings up John Sutter, whom he researched while working on the now-defunct Sutter’s jeans label, inspired by early California mining jeans. Rather than mine for gold during the Gold Rush, Sutter sold supplies to the miners. Patterson sees himself in a similar business. He has seen denim brands come and go.
“If you sell the pick and shovel, you’ll still be in business. We’re selling the service of putting a garment together.”