Lifestyle
After 103 years, this L.A. prop maker finds new success freeze-drying dead pets
In a room inside a North Hollywood warehouse, dozens of pets are ready for their owners to take them home.
Boots, a young black-and-white domestic shorthair cat, lies on his back, pawing playfully at the air. A trio of red, yellow and green parrots and cockatiels sit on wooden perches, oblivious to the piercing stare of a blue-eyed feline a few feet away. Princess, a senior Chihuahua, rests with her eyes closed and body curled into a tight cocoon, as a frenetic hamster named Ponby stands upright, his eyes bulging. There’s a naked guinea pig, a giant red macaw and an adorably chunky pit bull named Messy.
Eyes, such as those shown here on Messy the pit bull, are made of glass and closely match the animal’s original colors.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
All of these animals are loose, liberated from the confines of cages and leashes, and yet no havoc has ensued.
These animals are also all dead.
It’s an everyday scene at Bischoff’s the Animal Kingdom, a Los Angeles taxidermy business that has been preserving animals for 103 years. The business is multifold — Bischoff’s creates and rents out prop animals to film studios, museums and nature centers. Posters on the lobby walls boast the company’s work on shows like “American Horror Story” and “Westworld.” But in recent years, a bulk of its taxidermy requests now come from bereaved pet owners, those willing to shell out thousands of dollars for a tangible commemoration of their late “fur babies.”
Birds are commonly preserved at Bischoff’s, but the business has made mementos of more obscure pets, including chameleons, roosters and hairless guinea pigs.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
From full-body taxidermy to partial mementos — skulls, bronzed hearts or freeze-dried paws, for example — such services provide closure in ways that, clients say, traditional burials or urns cannot.
“It was honestly really comforting to have her back, and just be able to touch her and, in a sense, talk to her too,” said Bischoff’s customer Zoe Hays of the preservation of her Chihuahua-Yorkie mix Pixie. “She was a great little dog — also a menace to society, for sure — but she’s still with me, and she always will be.”
Bodily preservation, beyond the ashes or cemented paw prints offered by veterinarians and animal hospitals, has become a growing facet in the world of pet aftercare, with traditional taxidermists fulfilling many of the niche requests.
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Inside Bischoff’s, the L.A. taxidermy company that preserves dead pets
Redlands business Precious Creature initially only offered full-body taxidermy of pets until customers started suggesting other ideas, such as lockets containing patches of fur and cat-tail necklaces. (Most recently, owner Lauren Kane sewed a zippered pillowcase using the black-and-white fur of a rescue named G-Dog, or, as his owner fondly called him, “Fluffy Butt.”) In her documentary “Furever,” filmmaker Amy Finkel explores the lengths to which pet preservationists will go, asking, “Who decides what kind of grief is acceptable, or appropriate?”
Bischoff’s co-owner Ace Alexander had a songwriting career before transitioning to taxidermy.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
Ace Alexander, 40, and Rey Macias, 55, the fourth owners in Bischoff’s long history, have steered the company to meet the new demand. Describing each other as “good friends,” the two men dress similarly in unofficial uniforms of black T-shirts and black pants, and they’re so in sync they sometimes finish each other’s thoughts. Since taking over the business, both have transitioned to primarily vegan diets.
“Bischoff’s used to be taxidermists to the stars in the trophy era, but now we’re taxidermists in the pet preservation era,” Alexander said. “People no longer hunt. Now they just love their pets.”
Hollywood needs supporting actors, even if they’re stuffed
Over the decades, Bischoff’s has preserved hundreds of animals. The Sumatran tiger has made many appearances in films and TV shows, including “Snowfall,” “Palm Royale” and “Welcome to Chippendales.”
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
In 1922, when Al Bischoff first opened the business on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, he’d stuff and plaster any animal brought to him. Most of the time, that meant trophies from hunting and safari trips, but it also included beloved pets owned by Hollywood elite. Roy Rogers used Bischoff’s to preserve his co-stars Trigger the horse and Bullet the dog. Buck — the dog from “Married with Children” — also got the Bischoff’s treatment.
Under Alexander and Macias’ tutelage, that’s still the case. They’ll preserve any animal you bring them — so long as it is not a protected species or an illegal pet. They’ll even make you a unicorn or a sasquatch or a wearable Velociraptor costume that roars and can open and close its jaws. The largest animal Alexander and Macias have preserved was an 11-foot-long buffalo, while the smallest, not including insects, was a hummingbird. Off the top of their heads, the only animal they haven’t preserved — yet — is the genetically rare white tiger.
Bischoff’s owners Ace Alexander, left, and Rey Macias show off a custom order of a pink peacock (sans tail) for a film.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
The majority of Bischoff’s clientele still comes from Hollywood. Due to federal and state laws, as well as industry regulators like the American Humane Association, it often makes more sense to use body doubles for animals when filming and is occasionally mandatory (such as scenes that involve roadkill or drowning incidents).
On a recent Wednesday, Alexander fielded calls from studios about the types of snake skins in stock, how to clean dirt off a rented coyote and the particular body poses of their turkeys.
“So what are you thinking?” Alexander said, talking on the phone. “Turkeys in flight? Perched? Or did you need a floppy version?”
As for the pet sector, which accounts for around 40% of their business, dogs and cats, unsurprisingly, make up the majority of the preservations, but the team has also worked on rabbits, rodents, chameleons and roosters. And although they will preserve your pet goldfish, they will strongly encourage you to consider having a synthetic version made of it due to the oils in the scales, which inevitably lead to deterioration.
Bischoff’s works on pets shipped from around the country as well as overseas. Dr. Xanya Sofra, who is based in Hong Kong, has had at least half a dozen of her papillons preserved by Bischoff’s. Another client, who was an avid hiker, had Bischoff’s preserve his golden retriever in an upright position so that he could carry it in his backpack on his treks.
Neither Alexander nor Macias had a background in taxidermy when they started working at Bischoff’s. They were both musicians, which is how they initially met. Macias also owned an auto shop and has been taking apart and fixing appliances from a young age.
Alexander picked up jobs at Bischoff’s when it was owned by the previous owner, Gary Robbins. The pay was good, the work interesting and he realized he had a knack for airbrushing and sculpting. In 2017, when Robbins was ready to retire, Alexander and Macias, who by then had also started working there, decided to buy the business.
Blending artistic skill with scientific knowledge
Each multi-level freeze-dryer can fit around a dozen pets at a time. Smaller pets need three to four months to dry out, while larger animals take nearly a year.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
Bischoff’s specializes in a form of hybrid taxidermy, incorporating traditional techniques with the more new-fangled freeze-drying process. The results are not only more lifelike and long-lasting than the standard gut-and-stuff method, but it also allows for the bulk of the original animal to remain, including the skeletal structure, toenails, whiskers, eyelids, nose and teeth. The eyes, however, are made of glass.
The method leaves room for error. Water can be used to dampen and repose the body and paint can be removed or retouched.
“You can definitely backpedal,” Alexander said, making a note to check the texture of the preserved hearts on sticks in the next 24 hours.
Alexander credits this attention to detail to his predecessors, former owner Robbins and then-main taxidermist Larry Greissinger, who taught him the trade. Strict in their teachings, Robbins and Greissinger emphasized getting every bodily facet correct: from recreating the natural anatomy to sewing the perfect hidden stitch to making sure the eyes looked right.
“That’s where the emotion is,” Alexander said. “You can get the perfect body pose, but if the eyes aren’t sitting well or don’t carry any emotion, then the animal will never look alive.”
Bischoff’s has old and new taxidermy, including two polar bears from the 1940s and 1950s, a bull created in 2013 for the “Yellowstone” prequel “1923” and a buffalo that appeared in “The Lone Ranger.”
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
A few of Bischoff’s early taxidermy pieces are still on display, including a dog, which looks more like a cross between a wolf and a baboon, dating to the 1920s. Its plaster interior, an old taxidermy technique, gives it a stiff visage and makes it exceedingly heavy.
Bischoff’s prices reflect its modernized techniques, as well as the amount of time and attention to even the smallest of details required to make a dead pet come back to life. The cost for a fully preserved cat or a small dog like a Chihuahua starts at $2,640, with small birds, like a budgie, starting at $850.
A photo booth is set up in Bischoff’s warehouse, where images of the completed pets are taken.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
Although most customers order full-body taxidermy, an “a la carte” menu has expanded over the years with jars of whiskers or fur, bundles of bones tied in a bow and, the most recent addition, freeze-dried hearts, which come mounted inside of a glass cloche. Bischoff’s also offers cloning services through its Texas-based affiliate Viagen Pets, to whom they send the pet’s skin tissues.
Pelts, paws and bronzed skulls are among the smaller items purchased by pet owners.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
Bischoff’s in-house artist Laischa Ramirez creates hand-drawn portraits of pets for owners who request it.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
Costly though their work is, Alexander and Macias see it as an investment. Pets, they point out, are friends you look at every day. You’re intimately aware of their nuances and quirks, like how their left ear might curl back more than the right one or the way their nose tilts ever-so-subtly upwards. Entrust their preservation to a novice or lower-cost taxidermist, and you risk losing some of the elements that made your pet who they were.
Bischoff’s has seen its share of people who’ve preserved their pets with budget taxidermists only to be disappointed. “It’s unfortunate because at that point, there’s not much we can do,” Alexander said. Such pets are cremated “because they just can’t stand to look at them.”
Bischoff’s key component? Compassion
Pets and pet hearts sit in a freeze-dryer at Bischoff’s.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
In the back of Bischoff’s warehouse is where the equipment resides and the smells of the oils running the machines permeates the space. The company has one aquamation machine that uses alkali solution, heat and pressure to break down the organic material into ashes. With interior chambers lined with perforated metal walls, the contraption somewhat resembles a fast-food restaurant’s deep fryer. Except, one taxidermist notes, when the process is done, instead of having golden fried potato strips in each basket, all that is left are bones.
Oftentimes at the ends of these processes, Bischoff’s workers will find inorganic remnants from the pets, such as microchips, metal plates or orthopedic screws. They give them to their owners as keepsakes.
Macias’ son, 29-year-old Chris Macias, works alongside his dad at Bischoff’s. He started helping out to make extra money while attending nursing school, but when business picked up, he decided to transition fully into the taxidermy business. He does a little bit of everything — recently, it was prepping a seal pelt for the San Pedro Marine Mammal Care Center — but tends to do pet pickups the most. Less technical though it may be, it is more emotionally taxing as he’s interfacing with grieving clients who might still be in shock or confused as to what exactly they want to do with their late pets.
Two calico cats were returned to Bischoff’s by the children of the woman who owned them after her death.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
“Everybody’s different, but I just try to be there for them,” Chris said. “Their pet was part of their family, so I totally understand. Because all of us here, we have our own pets as well. We get it.”
Though Alexander never imagined building a career out of preserving dead pets, he said, “We’ve found joy in this work and we just see preservation as another form of art.”
It’s that art that is helping keep the memories of beloved pets alive — for generations even. Hays, the owner of Chihuahua-Yorkie mix Pixie, already has a contingency plan in place for Pixie’s taxidermy upon her own death. It will be “adopted” by another family member. Her daughter has already called dibs.
And many of Bischoff’s pet preservation customers are repeat clients, which is something that Alexander and Macias take pride in. Two women picking up the taxidermy body of their late cat recently chatted with Alexander about their newest rescue, a diabetic stray cat burnt in the Altadena fires. They couldn’t help but comment on the “beautiful bone structure” of the feline, still very much alive.
“I was like, ‘Hmm, you’re definitely going on the altar some day,’” one of the women said.
When John Lantigua, a retired journalist in Miami Beach, checked his email one recent morning, he was glad to see an invitation.
“It was like, ‘Come and share an evening with me. Click here for details,’” Mr. Lantigua said.
It appeared to be a Paperless Post invitation from someone he once worked with at The Palm Beach Post, a man who had left Florida for Mississippi and liked to arrange dinners when he was back in town.
Mr. Lantigua, 78, clicked the link. It didn’t open.
He clicked a second time. Still nothing.
He didn’t realize what was going on until a mutual friend who had received the same email told him it wasn’t an invitation at all. It was a scam.
Phishing scams have long tried to frighten people into clicking on links with emails claiming that their bank accounts have been hacked, or that they owe thousands of dollars in fines, or that their pornography viewing habits have been tracked.
The invitation scam is a little more subtle: It preys on the all-too-human desire to be included in social gatherings.
The phishy invitations mimic emails from Paperless Post, Evite and Punchbowl. What appears to be a friendly overture from someone you know is really a digital Trojan horse that gives scammers access to your personal information.
“I thought it was diabolical that they would choose somebody who has sent me a legitimate invitation before,” Mr. Lantigua said. “He’s a friend of mine. If he’s coming to town, I want to see him.”
Rachel Tobac, the chief executive of SocialProof Security, a cybersecurity firm, said she noticed the scam last holiday season.
“Phishing emails are not a new thing,” Ms. Tobac said, “but every six months, we get a new lure that hijacks our amygdala in new ways. There’s such a desire for folks to get together that this lure is interesting to people. They want to go to a party.”
Phishing scams involve “two distinct paths,” Ms. Tobac added. In one, the recipient is served a link that turns out to be dead, or so it seems. A click activates malware that runs silently as it gleans passwords and other bits of personal information. In all likelihood, this is what happened when Mr. Lantigua clicked on the ersatz invitation link.
Another scam offers a working link. Potential victims who click on it are asked to provide a password. Those who take that next step are a boon to hackers.
“They have complete control of your email and, in turn, your entire digital life,” Ms. Tobac said. “They can reset your password for your dog’s Instagram account. They can take over your bank account. Change your health insurance.”
Digital invitation platforms are trying to combat the scam by publishing guides on how to spot fake invitations. Paperless Post has also set up an email account — phishing@paperlesspost.com — for users to submit messages for verification. The company sends suspicious links to the Anti-Phishing Working Group, a nonprofit that maintains a database monitored by cybersecurity firms. Flagged links are rendered ineffective.
The scammers’ new strategy of exploiting the desire for connection is infuriating, said Alexa Hirschfeld, a founder of Paperless Post. “Life can be isolating,” Ms. Hirschfeld said. “When it looks like you’re getting an invitation from someone you know, your first instinct is excitement, not skepticism.”
Olivia Pollock, the vice president of brand for Evite, said that fake invitations tended to be generic, promising a birthday party or a celebration of life. Most invitations these days tend to have a specific focus — mahjong gatherings or book club talks, for instance. “The devil is in the details,” Ms. Pollock said.
Because scammers don’t know how close you are with the people in your contact list, fake invitations may also seem random. “They could be from your business school roommate you haven’t spoken to in 10 years,” Ms. Hirschfeld said.
Alyssa Williamson, who works in public relations in New York, was leaving a yoga class recently when she checked her phone and saw an invitation from a college classmate.
“I assumed it was an alumni event,” Ms. Williamson, 30, said. “I clicked on it, and it was like, ‘Enter your email.’ I didn’t even think about it.”
Later that day, she received texts from friends asking her about the party invitation she had just sent out. Her response: What party?
“The thing is, I host a lot of events,” she said. “Some knew it was fake. Others were like, ‘What’s this? I can’t open it.’”
Andrew Smith, a graduate student in finance who lives in Manhattan, received what looked like a Punchbowl invitation to “a memory making celebration.” It appeared to have come from a woman he had dated in college. He received it when he was having drinks at a bar on a Friday night — “a pretty insidious piece of timing,” he said.
“The choice of sender was super clever,” Mr. Smith, 29, noted. “This was somebody that would probably get a reaction from me.”
Mr. Smith seized on the phrase “memory making celebration” and filled in the blanks. He imagined that someone in his ex-girlfriend’s immediate family had died. Perhaps she wanted to restart contact at this difficult moment.
Something saved him when he clicked a link and tried to tap out his personal information — his inability to remember the password to his email account. The next day, he reached out to his ex, who confirmed that the invitation was fake.
“It didn’t trigger any alarm bells,” Mr. Smith said. “I went right for the click. I went completely animal brain.”
The new scam comes with an unfortunate side effect, a suspicion of invitations altogether. It’s enough to make a person antisocial.
“Don’t invite me to anything,” Mr. Lantigua, the retired journalist, said, only half-joking. “I’m not coming.”
You want to know where men’s fashion is heading? Follow the geeks.
These are the obsessives, fixated, with a NASA technician’s precision, on how their pants fit or on which pair of Paraboot shoes is the correct pair. These are the obsessives who in the aughts were early to selvage denim (now available at a Uniqlo near you!) and soft-shouldered Italian tailoring in the mode that, eventually, trickled down to your local J. Crew.
And where has the attention of this cohort landed now? On a vanguard of newish-to-the-West labels from Japan, like A.Presse, Comoli, Auralee and T.T.
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A.Presse is probably the most hyped of this cohort. What other label is worn by the French soccer player Pierre Kalulu and the actor Cooper Hoffman and has men paying a premium for a hoodie on the resale market? Kazuma Shigematsu, the founder, is not into attention. When we spoke, he wouldn’t allow me to record the conversation. Notes only.
“You mean a better-fitting denim jacket that’s based on an old Levi’s thing? Yeah, OK, sold,” said Jeremy Kirkland, host of the “Blamo!” podcast and the textbook definition of a latter-day Japanese men’s wear guy. Mr. Kirkland, once someone who would allocate his budget to Italian suits, admitted that, recently, over the course of two weeks, he bought four (yes, four) jackets from A.Presse1.
“I’m not really experimenting with my style anymore,” Mr. Kirkland said. “I’m just wanting really good, basic stuff.”
Basic though these clothes appear, their hook is that they’re opulent to the touch, elevated in their fabrication.
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Over the years, the designer Ryota Iwai has told me repeatedly that he is inspired by nothing more than the people he sees on his commute to the Auralee offices in Tokyo. When asked recently if he collected anything, he said nothing — just his bicycle.
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The true somber tale of this wave. The brand’s founder, Taiga Takahashi, died of an arrhythmia in 2022 at 27. The label has continued to plumb history for inspiration. The latest collection had pieces that drew on bygone American postal-worker uniforms.
An Auralee2 bomber looks pedestrian until you touch it and realize its silk. Labels like T.T3 make clothes that echo the specs of a vintage relic yet come factory fresh, notched up, made … well, better. They bestow upon the wearer a certain in-the-know authority.
And so there is a hobbyist giddiness present on Discord channels where 30- and 40-something men trade tips on how to size moleskin trousers by the Japanese label Comoli; at boutiques like Neighbour in Vancouver, British Columbia, where items like a $628 dusty pink trucker jacket from Yoko Sakamoto and an $820 T.T sweater sell out soon after hitting the sales floor.
What’s notable is how swiftly these geeky preferences have wiggled into the broader fashion community. While I was in Paris for the men’s fashion shows a year ago January, all anyone wanted to talk about were things with a “Made in Japan” tag. I would speak with editors who were carving out room in their suitcases for Auralee’s $3,000 leather jackets.
But these were clothes being shown away from the fashion week hordes. The A.Presse showroom was on a Marais side street in a space about as long as a bowling lane and scarcely wider that was crammed with racks of canvas, silk and denim jackets with Pollock-like paint splatters. There were leather jackets as plush as Roche Bobois sofas and hoodies based on sweatshirts made in America a half-century ago.
I got the hype. After 10 days of puzzling over newfangled stuff on the runways, the display of simple, understandable shapes we’ve known our whole lives, but redone with extra care, couldn’t have felt more welcome.
Kazuma Shigematsu, the A.Presse designer, said he had collected a trove of vintage pieces that he housed in a separate space to plumb for inspiration. He made new clothes based on old clothes that benefited from a century of small design tweaks.
By this January, A.Presse had upgraded to a regal maison facing the Place des Vosges, with giant windows and even more reverent hoodies, even more tender leathers. Back in America, I asked an online department store executive what his favorite thing from Paris was. He took out his phone to show me photos of himself trying on a zip-up leather jacket in A.Presse’s high-ceilinged showroom.
On Their Own Terms
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“We never think about trendiness or popular design details,” Ms. Sakamoto said through a translator. “It’s more like functionality, everyday use.” The label has a thing for natural dyes: pants stained with persimmon tannin, yellow ochre and sumi ink, shirts colored with mugwort and adzuki beans.
The sudden popularity of these labels outside Japan can make it feel as if they are new. Yet each label has built a respectable business within Japan, some for more than a decade. Auralee was founded in 2015. A year later, Yoko Sakamoto4 started its line. A.Presse is the relative baby of this cohort at five years old.
“A couple years ago, we would have to buy off the line sheet or go to Japan and see everything,” said Saager Dilawri, the owner of Neighbour, who has an instinct for what spendy, creative types lust after. “Now I think everyone from Japan is trying to go to Paris to get into the international market.”
This movement’s “Beatles on Ed Sullivan” moment occurred in 2018, when Auralee won the Fashion Prize of Tokyo, granting the designer, Ryota Iwai, financial support. Soon after, Auralee was given a slot on the Paris Fashion Week calendar.
“I had never seen a show before, never thought to do it,” Mr. Iwai said through a translator in February, days after his latest runway show. He has now done five.
As we talked, buyers speaking different languages entered his storefront showroom and ventured upstairs to scrutinize items like a trench coat that looked as if it was made of corduroy but was actually made from cashmere and wool and an MA-1 bomber jacket with a feathery merino wool lining peeking out along the placket.
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The Cale designer Yuki Sato travels throughout Japan to find textiles. Unusually, the company manufactures everything, including leather and denim, in one factory.
At Cale’s5 display off Place Vendôme, the designer Yuki Sato described denim trousers and pocketed work jackets as “modest, but perfectionist.” On the other side of the city, at Soshi Otsuki, whose 11-year-old label Soshiotsuki has gained attention for its warped vision of salary-man suits, I encountered buyers from Kith, a New York streetwear emporium better known for selling logoed hoodies and sell-out sneakers than for tailoring.
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Nearly a decade into its existence, Soshiotsuki has hit a hot streak. Soshi Otsuki won the LVMH Prize in 2025, and he already has a Zara collaboration under his belt. An Asics collaboration is set to arrive in stores soon.
Talking through translators with these designers, I began to worry that it might be unfair to group them together simply because they were all from Japan. Auralee simmers with colors as lush as a Matisse canvas, while Comoli’s brightest shade is brown. Soshiotsuki6 has mastered tailoring, while Orslow is known for its faded-at-the-knee jeans channeling decades-old Levi’s.
Rather, as with the Antwerp Six design clique that sprung out of Belgium in the early 1980s, it is these labels’ origin stories that thread them together.
“They’re being encountered on their own terms and respected on their own account, and they happen to be Japanese,” said W. David Marx, the author of “Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style” and a cultural critic who has lived in Tokyo for more than two decades.
“It is a new era of Japanese fashion on the global stage,” Mr. Marx said.
A Love Affair With Japan
Western shoppers have a history of falling hard for clothes from Japan. In 1981, when Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons and Yohji Yamamoto crashed onto the Paris fashion scene, buyers swooned for their brainy, body-shrouding creations.
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Recently reintroduced as Number(N)ine by Takahiro Miyashita.
Years later, Number(N)ine7 and A Bathing Ape synthesized trends we would call American — grunge, streetwear and hip-hop — polished them up and sold them back to the West.
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Years before American men were trawling the internet for A.Presse, they would scour forums for deals on Visvim’s jeans and sneakers. Today, Visvim has stores in Santa Fe, N.M.; Carmel, Calif.; and Los Angeles.
Into the 2000s, clothing geeks were swapping tips on forums like Superfuture and Hypebeast about how to use a Japanese proxy service to buy Visvim’s8 seven-eyelet leather work boots or SugarCane’s brick-thick jeans.
Along the way, “Made in Japan” became a shorthand for “made well.” This was more than fetishization. As America’s clothing factories became empty carcasses pockmarking the heartland, Japan’s apparel industry grew steroidal.
“Japan still has an incredible manufacturing base for apparel that goes all the way from the textiles to the sewing to the postproduction,” Mr. Marx said.
Today, many Japanese labels produce most of their garments and, crucially, their textiles in Japan. When I first met Mr. Iwai years ago, I asked how he managed to create such lush colors. He answered, as if noting that the sky was blue, that he worked with the factories that developed his fabrics. As I spoke with Mr. Sato in January, he shared that Cale’s factory had been in his family for generations and also produced for other Japanese brands that I would know.
Chris Green, the owner of Ven. Space, a boutique in the Carroll Gardens neighborhood of Brooklyn that has helped to introduce a number of these labels to an American market, suggested that because Japan is a small country with a fervent fashion culture, a competitive spirit has been stoked.
“They have to be able to cut through the noise,” Mr. Green said, with brands trying to prove that their cashmere sweater can outclass their peers’, that their silks are sourced from finer factories. What’s more, he said, once these brands have nailed a design, they stick with it. That is something that is important to men, in particular, who hate when a brand abandons its favored pants after a season.
Before he opened Ven. Space in 2024, Mr. Green was an admirer of many of these labels, purchasing them during trips to Japan. As we spoke, he was wearing a pair of Comoli belted jeans that he bought five or so years ago. A similar style is still available.
Primed for What They Were Pitching
At the close of the 2010s, streetwear was running on fumes. Quiet luxury was entering at stage left. If the Row and Loro Piana were expert at subtle, fine-to-the-touch clothes, so, too, were the likes of T.T, Graphpaper and Yoko Sakamoto.
“I went from this guy that wears pear-shaped pants to just wearing, like, a denim jacket,” said Chris Maradiaga, a tech worker and freelance writer in Vancouver. His wardrobe today consists of Comoli’s black-as-night trousers and a purple-tinged coat by Ssstein. His kaleidoscopic Bode jackets gather dust.
That Ssstein clothes have landed in the closets of men on the other side of the world defies the early guidance relayed to Kiichiro Asakawa, the label’s bushy-haired designer. His “senpais,” or mentors, warned him that his reduced designs might leave Western audiences cold. “You need something powerful,” they told him.
He tried, but it wasn’t necessary. It’s the most minimal designs — his cotton gabardine zip-ups, his “easy” pleated trousers — that people are most interested in now. “It actually makes me very happy,” he said through a translator. “My instincts were right.” Mr. Asakawa won the Fashion Prize of Tokyo in 2024.
Adapting to North American Markets (and Men)
Several Japanese designers noted that they had modified their sizing to accommodate larger, American bodies.
“I’ll ask them, Can you lengthen the pants by three centimeters? Because you need that for the Western market,” Mr. Dilawri of Neighbour said, noting that the designers were receptive to those requests.
A number of labels, like Comoli and Soshiotsuki, are already oversize. That’s the look.
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Kiichiro Asakawa ran a Tokyo boutique, Carol, before starting Ssstein in 2016. It’s still there. He, too, said he found inspiration in the everyday, for example when watching an elderly couple have dinner across a restaurant.
There is also the matter of price. On the whole, these clothes are not cheap. See Auralee’s silk bomber jacket, which could be military surplus but feels stolen from a sultan’s palace. It’s roughly $1,700. Ssstein’s9 Carhartt cousin chore jacket with a cowhide collar and a factory-massaged fade? About $1,000. Anyone who has traveled recently in Japan, where the yen is tantalizingly weak, will tell you that these Japanese-made clothes, after being imported, are far pricier in North America.
Yet, as luxury fashion labels continue to price out the aspirational middle-class shopper, many of those same shoppers have convinced themselves that the Japanese labels are a better value. A cashmere coat at Prada is $10,000, and you’ll need $1,690 to own a cotton-blend cardigan from Margiela. Similar pieces from Japanese labels can be half that price, or less.
“Brands like Bottega, Balenciaga, the Row — all that stuff — are so unobtainable,” said Mr. Kirkland, whose clothing budget has shifted to A.Presse. “I will never be in that price bracket,” he added, “but I’m wealthy enough to buy a chore coat for $800.”
Of course, Mr. Kirkland and all of the fans of these labels could own a chore coat for far less — but then it wouldn’t be “Made in Japan.”
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