From Imperial Codes to Republican Liberation

For centuries, Chinese women’s fashion was bound by rigid sumptuary laws. The Tang Dynasty (618-907 CE) mandated that low-ranking officials like the Jiangzhou司马 (Sima) wear only blue garments, as immortalized in Bai Juyi’s poem “Song of the Pipa Player.” By the Qing Dynasty (1644-1912), these regulations reached obsessive precision—yellow hues distinguished imperial ranks (apricot for crown princes, gold for other princes), while robe slits signaled status (two for commoners, four for royalty).

Han women under Qing rule maintained the ancient “two-piece” attire (上衣下裳), while Manchu women wore restrictive court robes with horse-hoof sleeves. As writer Eileen Chang noted in “A Chronicle of Changing Clothes,” attempts at sartorial cross-pollination were brutally suppressed by imperial decree. This sartorial apartheid collapsed with China’s last dynasty—but what emerged from its ashes would shock traditionalists.

The Qipao Revolution: Silhouettes and Scandal

The 1920s witnessed a fashion earthquake. Inspired by Western ideals of feminine curves and Republican egalitarianism, the modern qipao emerged—not as a continuation of Manchu robes, but as a radical reinvention. Tailors began employing darting and bias-cutting techniques to accentuate “nine curves” (head, shoulders, bust, neck, waist, legs, hips, hands, feet) through “three arcs” (collar, placket, hem).

This sartorial revolution unfolded in stages:
– 1929: Hemlines rose daringly to the knee
– 1931: A pendulum swing to floor-sweeping “dust-trailing” lengths
– 1933: Thigh-high slits that scandalized warlords
– 1936: Near-sleeveless designs baring arms

Notorious militarist Sun Chuanfang banned qipao for being “too eye-catching,” performing comical public rituals of covering his eyes at the sight of exposed ankles. Yet even his own concubine defied the edict, wearing qipao to Hangzhou’s Lingyin Temple—a telling symbol of changing times.

Silver Screen Seduction: How Movie Stars Globalized the Qipao

Shanghai’s film industry became the qipao’s runway. Screen siren Hu Die pioneered the “butterfly hem” (褶边), while Gu Lanjun’s thigh-high “Diaochan slit” (named for her legendary role) set 1930s pulses racing. Magazine spreads like “The Violet’s Qipao Column” and commercial calendar posters transformed the garment into mass media spectacle—Coca-Cola ads featured qipao-clad models selling modernity alongside soda.

The trend crossed oceans when Hollywood icons adopted the look:
– Grace Kelly’s Oscar appearances
– Elizabeth Taylor’s Orientalist glamour
– Ingrid Bergman’s wartime chic

A 2006 UK poll ranked Kelly as history’s second-most beautiful woman, immortalizing her qipao moments. Meanwhile, Beijing’s Capital Museum preserves fragile 1930s chiffon qipaos—their sheer sleeves whispering of a bygone daring.

Legacy: More Than Fabric

Today’s qipao revival—from Shanghai Tang boutiques to Met Gala appearances—carries complex DNA:
1. Feminist Statement: Early wearers weaponized fashion against Confucian modesty
2. Cultural Hybridity: Western seaming techniques married to Eastern motifs
3. Political Symbol: Rejected both Qing feudalism and Western imperialism

Scholar Antonia Finnane notes that while the qipao became “China’s national costume,” its journey mirrors China’s turbulent modernization—a fabric literally cut and recut by history’s scissors. As contemporary designers rework its lines for new generations, the qipao remains not just a dress, but a dialogue between tradition and transformation.