Lovelock inmates enter the world of designer leisure wear

Saturday, Feb. 25, 2006 | 8:39 a.m.

Paris. Milan. New York. Lovelock?

The small northwestern Nevada town may not be ready just yet to take its place among the glitziest fashion capitals of the world, but it's on the map and looking to grow.

And future sale prospects look promising. In fact, you could say Lovelock has a captive market.

The Lovelock Correctional Center is home to the latest in leisure wear - a clothing line made by inmates, inspired by incarceration.

Inmates named the brand Hard Timin and designed the logo, which features a prisoner in stripes with leg shackles and reads, "Hard Timin, Relaxed Fit."

Woven onto white damask, the logo is meant to be seen.

"We're prisons, and we're marketing what we are," Nevada prison industry director Howard Skolnik said.

The clothing line is limited: three styles of shorts, two types of jeans, two jackets and two shirts. The choice of color begins and ends with blue - in poplin, denim and twill. And the sizing is more democratic than couture, with waists running up to 60 inches and shirts reaching all the way to 6X.

Silver State Industries, a manufacturing company run by the Corrections Department, launched Hard Timin from the Lovelock prison garment factory in 2003.

Hard Timin is not available in stores - yet - and to date, only a handful of online shoppers have bought the clothing from Silver State's internet catalog.

Behind bars, sales are better. About 2,000 Hard Timin items were sold last year in Nevada prison canteens, where pants are priced from $19 to $28, garment factory supervisor Jim Pagette said.

Pagette hopes to double Hard Timin's factory production by next year, and Skolnik has met with retailers to discuss distribution.

"I think that what we've got is a boutique-type operation," Skolnik said. "If we could get into a large chain, that would be awesome, but somehow I can't see us competing with Levi Strauss."

Officials in the Oregon Corrections Department perhaps felt equally unsure when they started their own clothing line, Prison Blues, in the late 1980s.

But Prison Blues jeans, T-shirts and jackets are now sold in the United States, United Kingdom, Sweden and Japan.

A private company, Array Corp., licenses and markets the Prison Blues label.

"Here in the Northwest, we have to be a little careful how we market these goods," Array President Matt Guthrie said.

"We want to avoid any appearance of aggrandizing prison life. The foreign accounts are a little edgier."

In the United States, Prison Blues is marketed as "U.S. made, U.S. quality" workwear, sales manager John Borchert said. In England, the clothing line is sold to hipsters who think the brand has a vintage cool, while in Japan, the line is sold to young adults who just want to wear clothes made by inmates.

Or, in some cases, worn by inmates. Japanese customers also can buy "Incarcerated Jeans," pants already worn by up to four inmates, Borchert said.

"We had to cross out the prison's name," Borchert said, so customers on vacation in America would not appear on the lam.

Although the company does not release sales figures, Guthrie said it barely breaks even.

"There's a lot of hidden costs to operating inside," he said. "There are a lot of things that can make you pretty inefficient."

Prison lockdowns and the cost of security staff can cut into the bottom line, he said. Some factory jobs, such as inventory, pose problems, because giving inmates access to computers is a concern. And asking one inmate to manage a fellow inmate is an invitation for the kind of office politics that exceed the average water-cooler scandal, said Borchert, a former factory manager.

Those issues, officials say, are the cost of running a business more concerned with inmate rehabilitation than company finance.

Teaching inmates employable skills takes precedence over profit because it helps prevent recidivism, Guthrie said.

Inmates at the Lovelock factory have spent most of their time making prison uniforms since the facility opened in 2003.

The factory became profitable for the first time last year, when roughly $390,000 in sales produced just over $18,000 in profit, revenue that helps sustain Silver State, Skolnik said.

While the Hard Timin line seems unlikely to break out to the pages of Vogue or GQ, having inmates produce the clothing is worth whatever it costs, Skolnik said.

"If you could see the attitude on the floor when they're manufacturing for private use as opposed for other inmates, you'd see a totally different environment," he said.

"This gives them a connection with the community that they otherwise would not have. It's a calming influence on the institution. There's a lot of hidden payoff that's not in the bottom line."

Inmates work harder on the Hard Timin clothing as a point of pride, recognizing the product will reflect their skill, Skolnik said.

"It takes them more time, it takes them more material, it takes a higher graded material," he said. "Almost everything about it is more expensive."

Hard Timin could be sold across state lines someday, so inmates working on the clothing line are paid the federally mandated minimum wage, about $5.15 an hour - before hefty deductions for board, a crime victims fund, restitution and Silver State's operating expenses.

But while the factory jobs may be low-paying, they are highly coveted among inmates, Skolnik said. About 60 inmates work in the factory.

"It's (prison) nowhere you want to be, but that doesn't mean they can't do something to feel productive," he said.

Skolnik plans to extend Hard Timin slowly. If the clothing sells too well, too quickly, competitive industries might cry foul, perhaps prompting state authorities to clamp down.

"They don't want me to run amok," he said. "They want me to buy equipment and raw material. They don't want me to buy condos in Saudi Arabia."

Silver State operates within the Corrections Department but does not receive funds from the government. It must make a profit to remain in business.