Changle Lu Qipao

With Chinese New Year banquets and parties on the horizon, women will be dancing and dining in qipaos, and the most exquisite of these traditional dresses were likely made on Changle Lu. Called Shanghai’s ‘Qipao Street’ in the 1920s, over the last century both the street and the icon have undergone many changes. Now, they’re witnessing yet another round of alterations.

Since its modern transformation from the modest cheongsam 100 years ago, the qipao remains China’s traditional sartorial icon. With slits cutting into its flattering silhouette, the sensual qipao of today bares little resemblance to its figure-hiding forbearer – a long, loose silk column with a high neck. The cheongsam originated from the basal garment of the Manchus in the Qing Dynasty. Originally, only elite women wore the dress, but after the Revolution of 1911 ended the Qing Dynasty, variations on it were enjoyed by all.

From the 1920s to the 50s, Changle Lu tailors and their clients gave the dress gradual makeovers. The slim-fitting dress became a symbol of the social glamour girl, popularized by high-class courtesans and celebrities. By the 1940s, the mix of styles and materials were countless. One legendary Changle Lu tailor, Xu Shikai, recalls his first memories of qipaos in the 1940s, when he was just a very young boy. “I’d see images of ladies wearing qipaos on magazine covers, ad posters and cigarette boxes. That was the age when the qipao became more accessible and moved a big step forward.”

While qipao shops have also popped up on nearby Maoming Lu, Changle Lu remains the epicenter of the qipao’s evolution to this day. While shop names and owners have changed, the tailoring tradition has remained intact. Xu, who began crafting qipaos sixty years ago, is the master tailor of the famous modern qipao shop, Hanart 1918. White-haired with glasses, the 74-year-old has outfitted Chinese celebrities from Peking opera singer Cheng Yanqiu to Taiwanese singer Meng Tingwei. He recently designed a qipao for CCTV’s Liu Xin to wear to a gala for President Obama when he visited China.

When Xu began his apprenticeship in the 1950s, he was mostly working on theater costumes. “I started as an apprentice at the age of 14. At the time my shifu [master] was tailoring for celebrities. I remember making costumes for the Peking opera master Mei Lanfang and wasn’t nervous at all.”

Xu’s apprenticeship centered more on Peking opera costumes than qipaos because the dress fell out of fashion following the founding of the PRC. At the time of the Cultural Revolution, even fewer women dared to wear qipaos. 1964 marked the ‘Destruction of the Four Olds’ period, when Communist Red Guards publicly condemned bourgeois styles like the fashionable frock. Xu says that some of his most intricately embroidered qipaos – haute couture pieces of wearable art – were burned in the 1960s.

Since the 1980s Changle Lu has enjoyed a resurgence in qipao popularity. Hanart 1918’s advanced technician who consults customers on design, Zhu Jinyou began his craft 30 years ago. His younger customers, however nostalgic, want a sexier and modern qipao. Year after year, Zhu has design progressively sultrier dresses. Floor-length became knee-length. Short sleeves became sleeveless. High necks became low necks. Slits became higher.

While the qipao has undergone a sexual evolution, it has simultaneously also become more casual. Zhu says that qipaos are finding their way more into everyday wardrobes. “Young women used to only wear the dress in weddings or very formal occasions, but now more and more wear qipaos to work. They’re obsessed with this traditional dress.”

Obsessed is not an overstatement. “One of the craziest customers flew all the way from Singapore to Shanghai last year to order more than 200 pieces. She wears qipaos to work every single day,” Zhu says with a laugh.

Now that women are more casual about where and when qipaos are worn, they want qipaos made of more casual fabrics. Zhu and Xu used to only craft qipaos of sumptuous materials like silk, lace and velvet, but recently they’ve been using more of an unexpected fabric: denim. Of the 600 qipaos they made last month, almost one third were for casual wear.

A qipao at Hanart 1918 costs anywhere from RMB1,800 up to RMB50,000 for an elaborately embroidered piece. The base embroidery fee is RMB5,800, a hefty but necessary price. Every stitch is hand done by skilled artisans, mostly all over 60 years old.

While the demand for exquisite, one-of-a-kind qipaos hasn’t died, the supply of specialized qipao artisans is on the decline. Xu is concerned about his legacy. “Being a qipao tailor requires perseverance and patience. You have to be talented as well, otherwise you won’t master the skills, even in a decade.

“But few young people are willing to learn the craft now,” Xu sighs. “It’s getting really difficult to recruit an apprentice. If anyone would like to learn, and I mean seriously learn and aren’t just curious, I’d definitely teach him or her. It’s such a pity that the craftsmanship is going to die, isn’t it?”

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