I didn’t land on a single, grand question to guide my investigation in denim this week. Instead, I followed a few threads and compiled a little collage of historical and cultural details. I was charmed to learn that denim was created more or less by accident in the 16th century; weavers had been trying to create one thing and ended up with something even better. This essence seems to be woven into the fabric, an explanation of blue jeans’ evolution from rugged workwear to fashion statement and universal wardrobe staple. Between its constant state of rebellious reinvention and its place in the story of vintage Americana style it’s hard to believe denim wasn’t born in the USA, but its story begins long before Levi Strauss ever entered the picture.
In fact, denim predates the blue jeans of Levi Strauss by a few centuries. It all began in the town of Nîmes, France, in the 1500s—a time when fabrics were often named for the region whence they came. The weavers of Nîmes were trying to replicate a fabric produced in Genoa, Italy, called jean. It was similar to a thick, sturdy corduroy made with a blend of cotton or linen with wool, and intended for use in more refined garments. The French weavers tried various combinations of yarns and techniques and never quite succeeded in creating jean fabric, but they managed to invent something new and extremely durable.
To better understand how it happened, here is a brief primer in weaving: looms are strung with long, parallel threads or yarns that run vertically (i.e. north to south) called warp threads. Into these threads, you run a horizontal yarn—east to west—in an over-one-thread, under-the-next pattern (this is the weft, or “woved,”* yarn). Changes in the over-under pattern create different types of fabric. For example, an over-five, under-one pattern creates a shiny fabric we call satin. The over-two, under-one repeat creates a textile called twill, identifiable by the distinctive diagonal thread line on the surface. Different weave patterns combined with various fibers (e.g. cotton, silk, wool) give fabrics their characteristics (drapey or structured, heavy or light) and ultimately the names by which we call them. Cut back to the French.
The weavers of Nîmes, experimenting fruitlessly to replicate jean fabric, produced a twill fabric of silk and wool that was less desirable than anything coming out of Genoa. They made a change, however, one day opting to warp their looms with indigo-dyed cotton threads. They wove a twill using a white weft thread and produced a fabric that was rich blue on the front, pale blue on the back, and more durable yet light than anything the sailors and farmers of the day were wearing. It held up after numerous washings, the dark color hid dirt and stains, and the indigo faded gracefully with wear. The name of the fabric was, true to the times, derived from its place of origin: Serge de Nîmes (twill from Nîmes) or Bleu de Nîmes (blue from Nîmes). Denim for short. What began as many failed attempts to create one thing turned out to be a revolutionary development in the textile industry.
I’m seeing a common thread between the inception of denim the fabric and the evolution of blue jeans the garment: both contain an element of surprise. Each was supposed to be one thing and became another thing entirely, its own thing. Highly individual. And there is also contrast: denim can be reliably recreated, over and over again, by twill weaving a white cotton yarn into an indigo-dyed warp. Blue jeans, however, well…have any two in history ever been the same?
I’m reading Denim: Street Style, Vintage, Obsession by Amy Leverton, and at first it confirmed my belief that clothing holds the stories of the wearer. I read on, though, and realize that if clothing holds a story, denim clothing holds a legacy. The book is a collection of brief interviews with denim afficionados around the world, and each of them knows intimately what they like to wear, the history of the brand, style, designer, and era they look for in denim. The variety in preferences, styles, individuality, and personal relationship with denim is astounding—over 100 people featured in this book, all wearing blue jeans, and no two look alike! The underlying common thread in all of these stories is that the person telling it is telling the story of their clothes—how each piece came to be theirs, why they choose to wear it, what it means for them. This is especially true for the vintage scavengers who specifically wear denim that predates them and comes with a story already imprinted on it with stains, tears, and iconic faded wear.
The more I read these stories, the more interested I am to learn about the vast icons of denim, between vintage rarities and contemporary brands making their mark on the scene. Over the past two weeks of study I’ve already learned a lot I didn’t know. As with any learning, the most important thing I’ve learned is just how much I still don’t know. What a chasm of ignorance lies between me and the depth of understanding of so many denim nerds in the world! It’s all very inspiring to me.
My own relationship with denim and blue jeans is…fraught. I’m always on the hunt for something that fits, flatters, and feels like me. But I’ve never sought a specific pair or curated a style, era, or brand. I try on everything in my size at the thrift store and leave with whatever seems to work alright. I’ve played with stripes, colors, bold silhouettes (read: wideleg), even making my own. I’ve owned some interesting vintage pairs, acid wash, high-waisted, avant-garde (just kidding, I’m referring to wideleg jeans again!). What I know is true is that I am a millennial and I will embrace my skinny jeans forever. I have not yet met a pair of jeans that will change my mind on this. See photos below and you’ll have no choice but to agree. I may not be a denim guru, but I know my shape.
I do have one small story I would add to the collection. Last fall I was visiting my friend’s thrift store in south Minneapolis. She runs a small, curated clothing shop with great prices and a fun, funky selection; there’s something for everyone at True Finds (do go). I had picked out a few treasures and went up to the counter to check out. She was coming out from the back room with an armful of new pieces from her latest haul. She handed me an interesting pair of jeans. “Here, try these on, they look just your size!” I looked them over, I’d never seen anything quite like them: Levi’s 501s, a button fly (vintage?), 100% cotton (vintage?), and a super interesting wash; I still can’t quite tell if they are faded or if this color is original. I’m not enough of a master to tell if they are truly vintage or not; they feel relatively new, but maybe they’ve been well cared for.
Curious about them, I got home from work this afternoon and pulled them from the drawer to look for any identifying factors that would place them in a specific decade. The tag says “made in Turkey,” which could be late 70s or 80s, or today. The button fly is certainly an older detail, but it could be a throwback. But then I looked at the red tab on the pocket: modern pairs say Levi’s, but vintage pairs say LEVI’S—the all-caps version known as “Big E.” Lo and behold, I’m looking at a Big E tab…for real? Is this another happy accident in the lore of denim, the fact that I passively bought these on a whim for their strange color and *immaculate* fit?
Well…I don’t think so, unfortunately. A deeper investigation has taught me that Levi’s released a series of authentic vintage reproductions, including details like the button fly and the big E tab. On the one hand, what a letdown, but on the other, how exciting it was for a minute, not only to think I had something, but to have been able to identify it at a glance! I’ve concluded that the jeans are indeed a modern throwback, but that’s okay. It is thanks to continued learning and understanding that I’ve been able to identify them as such; I’m happy to know I won’t be so easily fooled in the future. And they still fit me like a glove.
These jeans also raise a glaring and obvious question I haven’t asked yet: don’t judge me, but broadly, what are 501s? Why are they such a staple? What is the significance of the number? When did they hit the scene and did they have an immediate impact on styles of the day? I’m learning quickly that I could have easily devoted this entire month to Levi Strauss alone! Truth be told, I don’t think next week will see me answering these questions; I’m already down a different rabbithole, but anything is possible.
*not a real word, but it helps me remember the difference between warp and weft.
Resources!
Read:
Denim by Amy Leverton, it’s very fun!
The Real Origins of Denim
Bleu de Nimes: History of Denim