On a quiet side street in Gyoda, Saitama Prefecture, a workshop rattles with the mechanical rhythm of old sewing machines.
Inside, beams of afternoon light catch motes of dust, illuminating piles of uncut fabric. Rows of metal molds rest like oversized cookie cutters, while gleaming kohaze (clasps) spill out of open boxes. Foot pedals pump, gears whir and skilled craftspeople shape tabi, Japan’s traditional split-toe socks.
Since the 1700s, Gyoda has been a base of tabi production, and by the 1930s, the town about 90 minutes north of Tokyo boasted over 200 tabi workshops and up to 500 ancillary businesses such as tabi packaging and printing. At Gyoda’s peak, its artisans churned out more than 84 million split-toe pairs each year.
As Japan’s postwar fashion ideals shifted to Western footwear these numbers dwindled. Today, just six tabi makers remain in Gyoda, but the traditional sock’s influence is far from being on its last leg. In 1989, French fashion house Maison Margiela reimagined tabi as a split-toe boot for European runways. Since then, tabi-inspired footwear has become, in certain circles, shorthand for a kind of cerebral cool — one foot in the past, one in the post-modern. Celebrities like Dua Lipa and Pedro Pascal have donned split-toe footwear on red carpets, leading Vogue to declare 2023 “a glorious year for tabi.”
Such global renown for the humble sock is cause to reminisce for Gyoda’s surviving artisans like Tadaki Shimazaki.
"My mother's family ran a tabi shop,” says Shimazaki, 90. “I got started when I was 18. This place was bustling and lively then. It was incredible.”
Today, Shimazaki volunteers his skills via tabi-making demonstrations at Gyoda’s Tabi and Lifestyle Museum. On a recent visit, I watched the master craftsman at work, guiding a piece of sturdy cloth under the pistoning needle of a sewing machine.
"The tsumanui (toe seam) — that part takes the most experience,” he says. “You need at least two years just to get decent at sewing. But to do this part properly, you need more time."
Crafting tabi entails 13 distinct steps and at least nine separate machines. Artisans, predominantly women, typically specialize in just one role, making tabi a highly collaborative process. It all begins with hikinoshi, where crisp cotton is carefully layered. Next comes saidan, in which the fabric is sliced into precise curves and contours using one of over a thousand distinctive molds, each tailored to a different size or shape. In kakedoshi, delicate thread loops are stitched in place, laying the groundwork for the kohaze, and as the sock takes form, it’s strengthened with chidori — a series of zigzag stitches that not only hold the panels together but help define the tabi’s distinctive silhouette.
Some of the machines used in Gyoda, imported from Germany and elsewhere, are now over a century old, and many are no longer produced. When machines break down, factories call favors from obsolete workshops to cobble together replacement parts.
Despite the challenges, Gyoda clings to its legacy and remains Japan’s tabi capital. In 2017, its collection of tabigura — brick kura (storehouses) once used to stockpile tabi — earned recognition as official Japan Heritage sites, and the craft received special designation for its cultural significance by the Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry in 2019.
At Kineya Tabi, a local factory founded in 1929, the production process remains almost unchanged. Takayuki Nakazawa is the company’s third-generation president whose business card describes tabi’s numerous purported health benefits, especially for Japan’s aging population.
“Injuries happen most often from falls,” says Nakazawa, 47. “And those come from weak toes, knees and hips. Thick soles can be part of the problem — they make you feel like you're floating, disconnected from the ground. Thin soles like ours train the posture, strengthen the legs and help the knees and hips stay aligned."
Nakazawa is nationally certified as a traditional master craftsman. In his workshop, he gazes fondly at old company photos and pairs of indigo-dyed proto-tabi — string-tied bags for the feet, just as the kanji for tabi combining the characters for “foot” and “bag” suggest.
Nakazawa is clearly sentimental about tabi, but he’s also a realist. With diminished demand for the socks still outpacing the availability of skilled labor, Kineya established a workshop in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam in 1995
"Around 30 years ago, people stopped going into manufacturing in Japan,” he says. “My father toured factories all over Asia — India, Indonesia, Singapore. Eventually, we felt Vietnam was the best fit. We found the workers honest and careful.”
Currently, the Gyoda workshop is staffed exclusively by Japanese workers, but Nakazawa is keen to integrate Vietnamese employees down the line. And while the company sometimes receives enthusiastic customers from overseas, Kineya’s focus is primarily local.
"We sell mostly to wholesalers," he explains. "Only about 5% is direct to customer. But if someone brings in a fabric they love, we’re more than happy to make a pair with it.”
Elsewhere in Gyoda, the Isami Corporation, a company with a history dating back to 1907, sees overseas markets and trends as the future of tabi. According to managing director Kaito Tsuchiya, these days its clientele has evolved to include kimono influencers and bonsai enthusiasts embracing craft as cool.
“We want to update the image of tabi,” says Tsuchiya, 29, donning a pair of ochre-toned pleather tabi. “Young people want variety. So we make colorful ones, using locally produced sashiko ori (woven fabric that mimics the appearance of hand-stitched embroidery) and batik fabric from Indonesia. There’s tabi you can wash in the machine or wear like slippers at home.”
The walls of Isami’s chic retail space are lined with tabi ranging from Japanese textiles bearing classic motifs like asanoha (hemp leaves) and floral woodblock prints. But the innovation isn’t just aesthetic.
“The shape of your feet changes from morning to night,” he explains. “Some people say their tabi feel tighter later in the day. So we adjust the fabric, sometimes adding polyester for elasticity, sometimes sticking to cotton.”
Tabi are not Isami’s bread and butter, though. The company’s main business is actually school uniforms, which commands a hundred times more profit. So why continue with tabi at all?
“I want to share tabi with the world,” says Tsuchiya. “They have a unique charm that shoes simply don’t.”
Kineya Tabi offers free factory tours with advance notice. The company also offers “tabi finishing” experiences where customers can assist in the final steps of tabi manufacturing (English support available).
The Isami Corporation offers tours of its workshop floor in addition to tabi-making experiences. Use the online contact form or call ahead to reserve a spot (English support available).
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