Taiwan Today

When the Manchus over threw the Ming dynasty in 1644, they not only scored a military victory but a fashion coup as well. Originally a Manchu dress, the chi pao survives today as a distinctively Chinese fashion hallmark. Its essential design and details-brocade fabric; a narrow, standup collar divided in the front; elaborate embroidery; intricate, satin-covered wire clasps; and steep side slits-continue to make their appearance in fashions the world over.

But in the early years of the Ching dynasty (1644-1911), the Han Chinese resisted wearing the dress of their conquerors from Manchuria. Many men and women were contemptuous of the en forced change in wardrobe and refused to give up the Ming style. The Ming ensemble featured robes ranging in length from the hip down to the knees, with buttons running down the front and flowing sleeves that widened toward the wrist. The circumference of the cuff measured around fourteen inches. The men wore loose, cloth-belted pants under their robes while the women wore wide skirts, either pleated or gathered, with hems often sweeping the floor.

The characters for chi pao (旗袍) meant "banner gown," presumably named after the multicolored banner system used by the Manchu army to distinguish among its eight divisions. "This is the reason we call the Manchus banner men, and the dresses for their women banner gowns," says Yang Chenkuei (楊成貴), who teaches traditional dressmaking at the Shih Chien College of Home Economics. Yang is also the director of the National Costume Association, an organization founded in 1975 of more than a hundred members, including tailors, manufacturers, and authorities on Chinese dress. Its purpose is to ensure the preservation of traditional Chinese costumes.

In fact, the Ching gowns for both men and women did look like four banners pieced together in front, back, and on the sides. The pieces parted at the knees, and as the wearer walked, the lower part of the gown would flap like banners. Both men and women wore loose pants with wide cuffs underneath their gowns. According to Yang, wearing Manchu dress was so revolting to Han people that quite a few loyalists were even willing to make the ultimate sacrifice - adding somber substance to the assertion, "I'd rather die than wear that. "

Under such vehement opposition to Manchu styles, the new rulers agreed to a compromise. Han women would continue to wear the Ming robe and skirts, but with considerably narrower sleeves. And while alive, Han men would wear the Manchu gown, but with the cuffs of its sleeves narrower by five to six inches. After death, they would be allowed burial in full Ming regalia.

Without the pressure to prove their patriotism, fashion-conscious Han women, with the approval of their husbands and sons, began to wear the chi pao. Its increasing popularity was perhaps largely due to its practicality and attractiveness, as well as to its identification with the official class and the rich. It was a costume that was at once simple in line, elegant in ornament, and sensual in appeal. The women of illustrious families wore silk and satin brocade chi pao, while less wealthy women wore embroidered cotton and linen variations. The weave of the fabric and the embroidery on the dress were resplendent with symbols, either repeated or combined. For example, orchids stood for grace and nobility, the plum for perseverance, and the peacock for good fortune. Auspicious red and Ming blue were popular colors, but yellow was reserved for the imperial family.

It took a tailor several months to make an elaborate chi pao. (Wealthy families often had a tailor and his apprentice as part of the household staff.) Filigreed embroidery decorated the collar, bodice, and cuffs of the sleeves. Embroidered motifs also lined the hem and the single side slit which exposed one leg from the knee down. Winter chi pao was sometimes made of wool, but more often it was made of silk and satin, and lined with fur. The dress was complemented with elaborate hair ornamentation, determined by the woman's social status and wealth. In their hair, usually tied in a flat bun, they wore clasps with ornate pins made of gold, silver, and pearl, often ornamented further with coral, jadeite, precious stones, and various pendants.

On their feet, women wore embroidered "flower-vase shoes." The distinctive style, designed to make the female posture and gait more alluring, featured a three-inch wooden pedestal placed at the center of each shoe. The heel was often bound firmly to the framework by a white fabric band, occasionally embroidered or with inlaid decoration.

The chi pao, unlike the Manchu rulers, endured the upheavals that brought the Ching dynasty to its end. Although the style persevered, it also reflected the times. For example, in 1929, the year Sun Yat-sen died, the Nationalist government declared two styles of national dress for women: a somber and austere blue, cotton chi pao and an outfit of blue jacket and black ankle-length, pleated skirt. Gradually, the association of the chi pao with the Manchus faded. While men abandoned their high-necked gowns in favor of Western suits, women continued to wear the dress.

Then in 1964, Wang Yu-ching (王宇清), professor of national dress history at Fu Jen Catholic University in Taipei and former director of the National Museum of History, proposed that the character chi, "banner," in chi pao be changed. The pronunciation and tone of the new character (祺) was the same, but it meant "peace and good fortune." This marked the final distancing from the Manchus. Says Yang, "From archaeological excavations and ancient murals, we have discovered that Chinese women wore one-piece gowns long before the Manchus brought the chi pao to China."

The chi pao adjusted in style to match the trends and atmosphere of the times, and the preferences of each generation. The length continued to rise, from the ankle, to mid-calf, to just covering the knees. Up till the beginning of the Republican era in 1911, the sleeves were always long, ending at the wrists. But the short-sleeved and sleeveless versions appeared after World War II. By then, the dress had also become more alluring, with two side slits opening up to three inches past the knees. Eventually the shape was to follow unfailingly every bend and fall, and bump and bulge of the body.

Like any fashion classic, the chi pao is still a chi pao, no matter the length of the dress or its sleeves, how closely or how loosely it wraps itself around the body, how high the slits climb, or what ever else its adornments may be. Wide variations fill department store racks. Al though the details may differ, the silhouette of a single line remains. The prices are just as varied, from US$60 for a simple style in cotton to over US$1200 for the more elaborate versions.

But the chi pao is past its halcyon days, and few women below thirty even give it a thought. It is a dress they usually associate with older women. "My mother wears them quite often," says banker Virginia Fang, twenty-seven. "I don't even own one. It's too formal and too expensive, and I really don't have the occasion to wear it. Maybe I'll try one in ten or twenty years."

True, the chi pao is more frequently seen on formal occasions such as engagements, weddings, and Chinese New Year festivities. It has become so out of the ordinary that there is a wide distance between the two types of women who regularly wear it. On one end are older women, the wives of government officials, diplomats, and corporate figures, and the occasional career woman. On the other end are airline stewardesses, restaurant and bar hostesses, and barbershop girls, who are usually not more than thirty years old.

Generally, the less distinguished the position, the higher the slits, a la Suzy Wong. Says Lu Cheng (呂政), sixty-six, a chi pao tailor and lecturer on Chinese dress history at Chinese Culture University: "For women who work in what we call 'special business places' (te chung ying yeh, 特種營業 ), the slits can go as high as ten inches above the knees." And then he says sternly, "This is not the real chi pao. It's a style influenced by the movies."
Lu also points out that the traditional chi pao are sheaths that fall straight down, and do not hug the body. The snug silhouette was a later influence from Shanghai, where the women were more sophisticated and enamored with Western fashions. Through the years, the body-fitting chi pao evolved from the dress of women perceived by society as loose and immoral, to a popularly accepted fashion.

Yang Wei (楊威), secretary general of the National Costume Association, remembers when the chi pao was so popular that even in the 1960s it survived the miniskirt. It simply rose in length along with the trend. At that time, in Taipei alone there were over 200 stores selling ready-made chi pao or making them to order. Formal wear accounted for most of the orders, and the majority of customers were wives of diplomats and high-ranking government officials.

But with the entrance of department stores and their racks and racks of ready made clothes came the demise of the chi pao. "More women were getting jobs," says Yang. "It's understandable that they wanted convenience and preferred Western-style dresses. The stiff collar and the tight waist of the chi pao made it difficult for them to move. And Western clothes are a lot easier to slip on and take off. If a woman needed a chi pao, she just bought a ready-made one."

Over half of the traditional dress tailors in Taipei looked for other means of livelihood. Some, like Lu Cheng, owner of the King Men Dress Shop, resisted despair and continued to sew the elegant dresses. "It's my life," he says. A native of Hangchow, the capital of Chekiang province, Lu began the required three and-a-half-year tailoring apprenticeship at the age of eleven. After his training, he returned to school, going on to graduate from a teachers college. He then moved to Shanghai to teach Mandarin and history in a primary school. He later joined the army and in 1949 moved to Taiwan. Three years later he left the army and began sewing.

At first, Lu ran the dress shop on his own. But soon he had a crew of twelve tailors to help him fill orders. His customers were the wives of Foreign Affairs Ministry officials. "I didn't advertise," he says. "They just heard about me from their friends." His reputation and clientele grew, and led to an invitation to lecture at the Chinese Culture University. He is now working on a voluminous project: a book on the history of Chinese dress based on research he has done in Taiwan and in mainland China.

Most of the traditional chi pao tailors in Taipei are from the mainland, and they follow either the Shanghai or the Fuchow style. "The Shanghai style is flashy, and the embroidery on the hem is more intricate," says Yu Hsiu-yeh (俞秀椰), sixty-one, owner of the Shanghai Dress Shop in Peitou, a northern suburb of Taipei. He is also a teacher of Chinese design at the Shih Chien College. Yu learned to sew the chi pao while a teenager in Hangchow and Shanghai. He moved to Taiwan in 1949 to join an older brother, who had set up his own dress shop in the Hsimenting district of Taipei, then the city's heart of fashion and commerce. He worked for his brother before setting up his own store in Peitou in 1961. He picked a good location. In the vicinity were two housing complexes for Ministry of Foreign Affairs officials. And like Lu Cheng, Yu had a workshop with several tailors.

Those were the days. Yu has been alone for several years now. Where have all the tailors gone? "The older ones died or moved back to the mainland," Yu says, "and the younger ones found more rewarding jobs." He adds that some of his tailors are now plasterers, bricklayers, taxi drivers, or sailors. "Sewing a chi pao requires a good hand to do the handstitching, the embroidery, and the clasps," he says. "It demands so much care and patience. The eyes suffer, too. Very few young people think it's worth it to spend three years learning skills that cannot promise a good livelihood." While Yu used to receive forty to fifty orders a month twenty years ago, he now considers himself lucky if he gets three to five orders for chi pao in a month.

"It isn't such a hard way to make a living," says Tang Fa-sheng (唐發生), sixty-six, owner of the Chung Chien Chinese Dress Store. According to Tang, senior tailors are paid by the piece and can earn about US$1,450 to US$1,800 a month. And if they are quick, they can earn as much as US$2,500. Speed does not necessarily sacrifice quality. "The apprentices, who get paid about US$500 a month, do the refining and finishing," he says.

Tang began his apprenticeship at twelve in his hometown in Hunan province. He lived and served in his mentor's home for the required three and-a-half years. "I woke up at dawn," he says, "and the first thing I would do was to fetch water for the family to wash their faces and rinse out their mouths. Then after breakfast, I went with my master to our customers' homes." It was common for tailors then to sew in a customer's home. The apprentice would quickly bring out and arrange in operation room precision the master tailor's tools. He would stand by and watch as the tailor measured, cut the pattern and fabric, and sewed.

Tang was in the army when he came to Taiwan in 1949. He was first employed as a tailor before he opened up his own dress store in Taipei in 1959. During the shop's peak years, Tang had eleven tailors working for him. He designed the staff uniforms of a number of government organizations. From 1959 to 1972, he was the exclusive chi pao designer for China Airlines. He also designed the staff uniforms for the Grand Hotel and the National Palace Museum in the early 1970s. Like Yu, Tang now works alone.

The shortage of traditional tailors is a concern that Yang Chen-kuei expresses in the preface of his book, Chinese Dress Handbook. He writes: "Tailoring used to be decent work that paid well. Only handsome, independent, and intelligent men with deft hands were welcome. Now that the business of custom-made traditional dress is dying, the experienced tailors are turning elsewhere, and new hands are nowhere to be found. Young men today regard tailoring as hard work with an unsteady income. The tailor as a craftsman is now a rarity."

Asked why most of the older generation tailors are men, Yang says that dressmaking could once provide a family with a good life. He says: "There is a saying, 'A skill is better than a thousand kilos of gold.' Besides, an apprentice had to live away from home and do work that required strength. It was not a proper thing for girls to do."

The chi pao seems to be making a comeback in the 1990s. Although it tends to be more popular with women over thirty-five, their return to the style, even if only for special wear, is significant. They were the generation that forsook the chi pao in the 1970s and 1980s. Chang Hsiao yueh (張小月), a thirty-seven-year-old senior specialist at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, says: "I don't wear it be cause I work for the government. I wear it because it's elegant and will never go out of style." Chang wore her first chi pao when she graduated from university in 1975.

But the chi pao the women wear today is hardly the cumbersome dress worn by their grandmothers. The modern chi pao comes in many different fabrics and styles, is easier to wear and care for, and is also available in a wider price range. "It actually looks energetic and stylish," says Tsai Meng-hsia (蔡孟夏), president of Long Light Corporation, the largest chi pao house in Taiwan.

"We need a modernized national dress" was the message that Hsieh Tung min (謝東閔), the first president of the Shih Chien College of Home Economics, gave eighteen years ago to a graduating class of dress design students. Tsai was among them. "I have kept his words in my mind all these years," she says, "and they have inspired the direction of my designs."

For ten years Tsai taught in tailoring schools. Out of boredom, she quit teaching and stayed home to raise a family. While caring for her two children, she began to take chi pao orders from her neighbors. "But I hated the feeling of being told what to do and how to do it," she says. So Tsai began designing, choosing the fabrics herself, and taking them to a tailor for sewing. She varied her designs according to the age, figure, and social status of imaginary women. Then she took the dresses and went from store to store, convincing them to take the dresses on consignment. Tsai was uncertain they would sell. But orders soon poured in.

When Tsai established Long Light in Taipei in 1965, she had one postage stamp size shop and two tailors. But while business for the traditional dress shops dwindled, Long Light nourished. Today the company has two boutiques, and fourteen branches altogether in women's clothing stores and department stores throughout the island. It has a production line of about 150, including four designers, five cutters, and fifty tailors. The chi pao is the company's main product. It also makes modern renditions of other traditional Chinese dress.

What is it about Tsai's chi pao that has allowed her to prosper in a market where others only seem to be facing a lingering weakness? She says: "I found that the only way was to change the dress to make it more affordable and suitable to the active schedules of women today. It should also be appropriate for formal or informal occasions. And really, the chi pao is the best style the petite Chinese woman can wear. The single vertical line makes her look taller and slimmer."

Tsai points out the innovations in the modern chi pao. The old method of sewing two pieces of cloth together has been replaced by cubic cutting, which is based on the lines of the body so that the fabric falls softly over the curves of the bust, waist, and thigh. The new chi pao also uses fabrics that do not crease or stain easily. Synthetic fibers, knits, and a mix of natural fiber and polyester have taken the place of silk and satin. The collars are softer and wraps the neck comfortably below the throat. Embroidery is now done by machine or done away with, and accessories such as the ornate, cloth-covered wire clasps have been replaced by buttons or zippers. "This is not to make things simpler for the tailor," Tsai says. "Convenience and flexibility are two very important requirements of modern chi pao design."

Red remains the color for celebration, but the chi pao now is available in many combinations of colors, from the somber and demure to the trendy and unusual. For example, Tsai's recent formal line uses fabrics embossed with flowers, and combinations of black and peach. Her casual series include tie-dyed chi pao with matching coat. And indeed, a retrospective look at Long Light's designs illustrate that the colors of the designs echo the seasonal color changes in international fashions.

In fact, Tsai's next goal is to move into the international market. The 1988 Miss Universe contest, which was held in Taipei, has already given her world wide exposure. She was the chi pao designer for the contest. To gear up for the larger market, Long Light has set up planning, promotion, marketing, and accounting departments. The company also has an enlightened attitude toward its employees. "The staff and workers are important to Long Light's success," Tsai stresses. The company's four-story building on the eastern outskirts of Taipei provides well-lit, spacious, and air-conditioned work spaces. Tsai also provides meals and dormitory housing for her tailors.

The shelves in the company library are crowded with the latest issues of international fashion magazines. "The chi pao might be Chinese, but we can't live too far away from world trends," Tsai says. But the distance does not seem that far away. Many international designs already show a strong Oriental influence. Tsai thinks that the Bernardo Bertolucci movie, The Last Emperor, contributed in a major way to greater interest in Chinese dress. The lavish Manchu costumes added a memorable vividness and authenticity to the scenes of life in the For bidden City and the fall of the Ching dynasty.

This Western interest in Chinese design encouraged many Taiwan designers to reinterpret traditional Chinese fashions and include popular Chinese forms and motifs as details in their designs. The trend pleases Tsai Meng hsia. "It's ironic that the winds of the East should blow from the West," she says. "It was a lesson for all of us." Once again the chi pao endures, a fashion flexible enough to adapt to the times while retaining its traditional allure. •